The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

With a shudder, the station wagon ground to a stop in front of the Calvert Grocery Store and Filling Station. The sun, having had as much of the gorgeous redwood-encrusted scenery as it could stand for one day, was dipping below the trees on its way to the Pacific. Barbara pulled herself out of the car, examining the rustic store and moth-eaten pumps without enthusiasm. She held back her mass of curly light-brown hair against the late-afternoon wind, and entered the establishment.

As the bell of the door jingled, Mr. and Mrs. Saggett looked up, nodded, and returned to their reading. They matched the interior of their store: aged but not yet decrepit, dusty but not filthy, slightly pale, gray and dim, and organized internally according to a scheme inexplicable to mortals. Barbara had never been in the grocery store without seeing them both there, side by side; if she had discovered that they were in fact Siamese twins joined at the hip, rather than (or in addition to) being man and wife, it would have not surprised her.

Barbara surveyed the rows of goods, and began her search for more typing paper. Calling it a “grocery store” was a nod to courtesy and an earlier age, since in the modern world a grocery store is expected to carry groceries, chosen and arrayed in some methodical fashion. The Calvert Grocery Store, much like the township of Calvert itself, looked kindly upon eccentricity, and thus if there was a pattern to the store, it was like the pattern of the roads (rivers, in the rainy season fast approaching) which lead to the small town, as the early surveyors must have established them: Let’s put this here. Why here? Why not? There’s space here. Sometimes Barbara thought that the entire store was stocked by the young children of the Saggetts (if there were any) placing crank calls to various canned goods distributors, parents’ credit card in hand.

The typing paper was, as any rational person would have expected it to be, tucked snugly between the propane tank gauges and the creamed corn (on sale, 25 cents a can, the sign exhorted). Barbara returned to the front of the store to face the Twin Commerce Gods of Calvert (Humbolt County, California).

Mr. Saggett looked up, his eyes watery blue behind thick glasses. “Gotahteeveh?” he asked, with a smile of yellowing teeth.

Barbara blinked. “Pardon?”

Mrs. Saggett joined her husband in the interrogation. “Got TV?” she translated for the benefit of the newcomer (three weeks this Friday).

“Um, well, yes. I was surprised that there’s cable television up here,” Barbara ventured.

Mr. and Mrs. Saggett smiled, turned to each other, and nodded. The first Russian traders in this area must have smiled that same smile when they discovered that the local Indians were unfamiliar with Western theories of property transfer. “Yep, cable went in just a year ago,” Mr. Saggett elaborated, abandoning his native dialect for the benefit of Barbara’s foreign ears. “We even have our own channel. 58.”

Barbara paused to find the right words, as she did not with wish to continue this conversation, yet neither did she wish to be patronizing towards the worthies of the closest town to her new cabin. “That’s great. Um, how much for the paper?” she asked.

Mr. Saggett nodded with gravity at Barbara’s perceptive comment. “Yep. Public access channel. Tim and Sheila run it.” Mrs. Saggett, always one to have the last word, could not let the matter rest at that. “Sheila and Tim. They run it,” she added with a sage nod. Barbara, hoping that the universal language, money, would extricate herself from this situation, slid a $5 bill across the counter. Change was made without further comment, and Barbara walked briskly out the door.

Outside, the last of the sunlight was filtering through the trees. Across the street, the Seagull Inn was proudly displaying its collection of beer signs, and the gravel in front of the building was filling with pickup trucks. Two by two, couples emerged, mostly young, and all very much the same; the men in plaid shirts and jeans, the women in tank tops, halter tops, crop tops, even the occasional bikini top, and mostly big up top. As she opened the door to the car, Barbara glanced down at her midriff, worried that she was flaunting some local ordinance requiring any busty woman under 35 to display her belly button. Perhaps it only applies to long-time residents, she thought with a smirk, as the station wagon crunched off of the gravel back onto the road.

The night and fog had closed in on the cabin. Whisps of white mist trailed through the brilliant cones cast by the exterior floodlights. Barbara stared at the oppressively white sheet of paper cranked into her typewriter, and shook her head. She had only been home an hour, but she knew that nothing more would arise tonight from whatever well of inspiration she possessed.

She leaned back, sipped on her tea, and glanced over at her television. What kind of show is on the local station for a town this size, she thought? I really don’t want to get any more involved with this place than I have to; I’m here to write. She sat down on the couch heavily, and thumbed the remote.

The camera was focused on a hand-lettered sign instructing viewers to stand by for “The Mysterio Hour.” The sign was removed, and the camera (none too steadily) panned up and over. When the focus was restored, Barbara’s eyes grew wide, followed immediately by a peel of laughter.

The set, generously described, was a corner of a room with light gray drapes tacked up to the walls, spread out over the floor. Mysterio (Tim? very likely) was a young, gangly man in thick glasses, wearing a long black opera cape over his dark jeans and t-shirt. He was seated on a bar stool, smiling at the camera with an absurdly self-satisfied grin. Look, ma, I’m on TV! His blonde female companion, undoubtedly Sheila, was dressed in a bright green, sequined leotard whose contributions to the production were, first, to show off her generous cleavage, and, second, to catch the harsh, badly-directed studio lights and throw them back into the camera, leaving burn-in trails on the screen, not to mention the viewer’s eyeballs.

Mysterio smiled at the camera. “Hello, there, residents of Calvert! It’s, uh, time for the Mysterio Hour. Now, you all know what that means! Men, keep a close watch on your pool game, and women, don’t look away from the TV!”

Barbara sniggered. This, she thought, I can use in a story.

Mysterio stood, nearly knocking over the stool; Sheila did a quick save. “OK, ladies!” he said, sounding like the door-to-door salesman, about to produce the final attachment to the vacuum cleaner, the one that would undoubtedly clinch the deal. “Watch carefully!” You betcha, Sheila agreed.

He pulled out a big gold pocket watch, and began swinging it back and forth; the camera slowly zoomed in, focus adjustment erratic. His voice continued over the image. “Watch the watch, back and forth... back and forth...”

Sheila blinked. “What the hell IS this?” she said to the screen.

“Back and forth... back and forth... you are getting sleepy... you are getting sleepy...”

Great. It’s a thirty-third rate hypnotist show. For women only. Sheila lay down on the couch. I hope it gets better.

“You are getting sleepy. You are getting sleeeeepy.”

Barbara yawned, slightly. “I’m getting bored, is what I am getting, Mysterio,” she replied.

“Sleeeeeepy... sleeeeepy...”

She blinked, again. Well, OK, sure, she was sleepy. She’d been up since dawn trying to get something down on paper. She yawned again.

“Sleeeepy... sleeeepy... your eyes are closing... you cannot keep them ooooopeeeen...”

Enough of this, she thought. She closed her eyes, listening to the TV, waiting for the program to change.

“Your eyes are closed. You are going to sleep. You are in a traaaaaance.”

Barbara felt herself start to drift, the warm, soft drifting of early sleep. Asleep. Sleepy.

“Ooooopeeeen your eeeeeyeeeess... you are in a traaaaance...”

She blinked her eyes open, immobile on the couch, too sleepy to get up and to go to bed. The camera was back on the couple. Sheila was standing stock-still, back straight, large chest thrust out, hands by her side, eyes huge and blank. Tim continued to swing the watch, chanting. “You are in a traaaance... you will obeeeeey meeeee... you will obeeeeey....”

“Obey...” Barbara said softly, her chest rising and falling steadily, eyes taking on Sheila’s glassy stare.

“You cannot reeeeesiiiist meeeee. You will obeeeeey meeeee...”

“Obey you,” Barbara and Sheila chorused together. Barbara felt so light, floating, as if she were already off in bed, asleep, and had just left her body behind, watching the TV. Watch the TV, Barbara. Obey...

“You have noooo wiiiillll. You have beeeen hypnotiiized. You caaaaanoooot reeeesiiist meeee.”

Barbara nodded, slowly. That’s true, she thought. I can’t resist you. I’ve been hypnotized, after all.

Tim put the watch away. Barbara stared at the screen unblinking, her mind a thousand miles away. “Now,” he started, his voice conversational. “OK, ladies, it’s time watch the Mysterio Hour. Don’t look away, not even for a second; be sure you listen to every word.” Barbara nodded. Of course, I can’t miss this.

He looked down a note card dragged out of the hip pocket of his jeans. “On tonight’s program, Sheila has some fashion instructions for all the ladies out there, but especially for our new friends. Then, we’ll talk about the can’t-miss social events for the next week, here in Calvert. And Sheila will finish up with our most popular segment, ‘Sex Tips for Girls.’” Barbara was sure that Tim was looking right at her.

Barbara adjusted the blouse for the fifth time. She didn’t have any tank tops, tube tops, or bikini tops for her top, so she had made do by taking a button-front blouse, undoing the bottom few buttons, and tying it tight under her breasts. “I dunno,” she said to her reflection in the bedroom, turning left and right. “I’m a little bit chesty for this.” She shrugged. If this is how they dressed to be social here in Calvert, she was not about to cause a stir by breaking convention. Follow all local ordinances.

She checked her makeup (more than she had worn since her mother caught her playing dress-up when she was five), wiggled into the tightest pair of jeans she had, slipped on the heels, and walked out to the car. As she turned the key in the ignition, she looked at the time: 8:25 pm, only twenty-five minutes after the Mysterio Hour ended. The Seagull Inn should still be jumping.

The area around the Seagull was so packed with pickups that she had to park around the side of the grocery store and rock in her high heels across the road to the Inn. She pushed her way through the door, and scanned the room quickly. The room consisted of twenty or more couples, all of whom scanned her back. A pool table and projection TV stood ignored in their respective corners. She tried to act nonchalant as she walked towards the bar; she was painfully aware of how much her tits swayed, unconstrained by a bra.

As she approached, the bartender turned; she was amazed to discover herself face to face with Mysterio. “Hi. I’m Tim. You know, Tim and Sheila. You must be Barbara,” he said, extending a hand. She took it. “I saw your show,” she said, studying herself in the mirror behind the bar. “Did you like it?” he asked, examining her breasts with interest. “Yeah, it was,” she said, then stopped and thought. What was it? I don’t really remember. “Great,” she finished, lamely.

Tim grinned. “You’re single, right? Up here by yourself?” Barbara cocked her head, suddenly feeling very light-headed. “Yeah. Single,” she said, her voice getting high and breathy. She sat down on a barstool, feeling herself relax, float a bit. “Great, that’s great, Barbara. We don’t have enough single women here in Calvert.”

Barbara just nodded, and looked into the mirror above the bar again. She hadn’t really noticed it before, but the couples weren’t just sitting and drinking. There, a man had his hands on a girl’s breasts, squeezing them and playing with them. There, she was sitting in his lap, facing him, grinding into him. There, he had her top off, and was sucking on her tits. There, she was kneeling down in front of him, giving him a blowjob. Her lips look really great doing that, Barbara thought idly.

Tim’s voice brought her back from her reverie. “Yeah, most of the girls here are taken. But since you’re single, you’re... well, not taken by anyone. Public.” He gave a giggling snort. “Public access.” Barbara could only nod, continuing to scan the room in the mirror. There, a man was leading a young woman—she couldn’t be drinking age—off into the back, and there, a woman was slowly stroking herself between her legs with the smooth wood of the side of a pool cue, and there a woman was masturbating on top of a table, legs spread (oh, thought Barbara casually, that’s Sheila, isn’t it? I recognize the hair), and there...

She felt a touch on her shoulder. She turned on the barstool, and met the eyes of an older man, probably in his forties. “You’re new in town, right?” he asked, his voice rough and drawling. She nodded. He sat down next to her. “What’s your name, sweetie?” She told him. He smiled. “That’s a pretty name, Bar’bruh.” Sip. “You busy raht now?” She shook her head, slowly, staring at him blankly. What could she possibly be busy doing in this town? “That’s good, Bar’bruh, that’s real good.” He took a drag on his beer. “Ever been done up the butt?” She shook her head, again, feeling like her head was connected to her body by a loose spring.

He grinned, put the beer down on the bar, and stood. “Well then, let me show you some Calvert hospitality,” he said, taking her hand, pulling her onto her feet. As he led her towards the door to the back, her free hand, moving on its own, reached for the topmost button of her blouse. In a distant, abstract sort of way, and without any real surprise, she noticed her pussy was getting wet.