The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I looked up with fascination at the beautiful, caramel-skinned woman thrusting herself towards orgasm on my chemically enhanced erection. It didn’t strike me as strange that such a beautiful young woman would be in my bed, in my house, nor did it strike me as strange that I felt only the slightest tingle, a shadow of what sex was normally like. Increasing her grip on my torso, she bounced urgently, with quiet, girlish gasps and intense sensation written on her face. Finally, her body convulsed one time, and she melted on top of me with a satisfied groan, breathing heavily. She poured her tongue into my mouth in a crazed, lustful, long kiss, after which, she dismounted my still-erect cock with a hiss. I watched her leave the room on wobbly legs, still on my back, unable to move. The door closed behind her.

My cock shrank a little while I waited, alone, still invisibly bound to the bed. I heard her voice in the hall, the door opened, and another woman stood next to her. “Have you been a good little slave while your mistress was busy?” cooed the caramel enchantress. The other woman slowly nodded her head. “Of course you have. There is your reward. Now you may remember your husband... the sexy man of your dreams, the love of your life for twenty-eight years... see how he is ready for you now... to climb on top of you and enter you... pleasing you as only he can... you may speak now, my slave...” The other woman—I suddenly recognized her as my wife—moaned. “Lie down and invite him in as you always have... he will be ready and eager for you.” The woman turned to me as my wife eagerly undressed. “You may now move, and feel everything... the passion... and it will last until I give you the sign.” She touched my wife on the forehead; in response, her eyelids fluttered, drooped, then closed, and her chin flopped to her chest. The beautiful young woman whispered in her ear, my wife’s eyes opened, full of lust, and she shook out her long, thick, gray-streaked black hair before joining me on the bed. The fog and fascination I was feeling dissipated when my wife—Lisa was her name—slurped my hardening dick into her mouth. She enthusiastically bobbed her head a few times before rolling onto her back and spreading her legs and arms, whimpering in excited need. I pounced and joyfully plunged into my still-exciting wife, who turned me on even at fifty years old and three kids later.

My body sang with delight as I pistoned at her, drawing squeaks and pants of passion from her. Lisa’s eyes rolled, unseeing, her body, led by the hips started jerking beneath me, and I felt her pussy contract, pulling me deeper, forcing me to slow down in spite of her incredible beauty in orgasm spurring me on. She relaxed, her clear brown eyes came into focus, and after a bout of fencing tongues, I redoubled my efforts. My dick was sizzling, but I had yet to start my own orgasmic climb. Not bad for an old geezer. My thrusting quickly brought her to the brink of orgasm, and then with a series of long, slow strokes, I pushed her over the cliff a second time. Lisa cried out, hips pitching skyward with me still safely held inside. We kissed again, my wife and I, the familiarity of twenty-eight years not diminishing our ardor for each other in the least. We had been great together in bed from the start, and that, even allowing for old age and the pressures and responsibilities of adult- and parenthood, had never changed.

“Ohhh Jack... ohh Jack...” Lisa rapturously moaned, face reddening, breaths coming more loudly, well on her way to her third orgasm. She tossed her head freely, uncontrollably from side to side, her eyes lost focus more frequently, and she grabbed me even tighter, all signs of an impending major orgasm.

Suddenly, smoke filled the air around us. I looked up to see the beautiful, caramel-skinned young woman standing, watching us with a combination of interest, bemusement... and desire. She was wearing a dress, looking like any female business professional, except for the burning cigarette in a long wooden cigarette holder. I watched her take a refined-looking drag, holder held from beneath, and exhale elegantly. Before I could react to that, she sultrily whispered, “Look at me and cum now, Daddy. Cum inside Mommy for me.”

The world went a brilliant white and everything vanished except the mind- and body-frying thrill of orgasm. My cock shot powerfully, once, then began to drool, sizzling constantly, now accompanied by my wife’s orgasmic cries and convulsions for a pleasurable eternity.

As I came down, my mind slowly re-coalesced and sluggishly began to function. I looked up at the third person in the room with shock, anger, guilt, and shame rising, instantly eliminating my afterglow. “Nicole—” I angrily began, but her index finger tapped my forehead and there was... nothingness.

I was in my usual hangout, speaking with my buddy, the doorman/bouncer, when a short, round, yet firm brunette came bouncing down the steps. She took my hand, looked into my eyes, and sang, “I love you truly, I really do...” I couldn’t help but laugh at that. While she wasn’t a complete stranger, we’d never interacted very much. Her name was Lisa, and she was a former roommate of a former cocktail waitress at the bar. I’d had some serious hots for her ex-roomie, who had flirted on and off with me before she disappeared. The most time I’d ever spent around her was in the bar on a slow Monday night. She’d come to spend some time with her roommate (and drink for free.) I watched them try to learn how to french-inhale, but they were quickly joined by a bunch of guys, and I faded to the background. Now here she was, professing her love for me. No sale. Where’s the hidden camera? “He laughs!” she said, sounding surprised, and turned to go back upstairs.

My friend swatted me and softly urged, “Go get her, man! I know what drunk looks like, and that’s not it!”

I sprinted up the steps and caught her as she was heading for the door. “Lisa!” She spun when I touched her shoulder.

“You laughed,” she... pouted.

“I wasn’t laughing at you,” I apologetically replied, “I laughed because I never thought that someone as cute as you would walk up to me out of the blue and sing to me like that without it being a joke.”

“Oh.” Her face lit up when I asked if I could buy her a drink, and we sat and talked for a couple of hours. I lit her Salem Light 100s like a gentleman and watched her smoke like a fetisher. She noticed the former, commenting that she liked me because I wasn’t brash or boisterous. “You’re just... so sweet.”

At the end of the evening, I was ready to go our separate ways, but Lisa had other ideas, first not letting go of my hand, then suddenly going up on tiptoe (she’s five-foot-four), grabbing my face, and kissing me hungrily. I started to get hard, but somehow managed to step a respectable distance away. “Wow... umm... Lisa. That was really, really nice... but how about we go a little... slower. Meet me for dinner tomorrow?” I could tell she was disappointed, but she gave me her phone number and we said our goodnights. I’m shy and cautious—and Lisa seemed a bit too enthusiastic.

The early days of our relationship reversed the stereotype: She tried her damnedest to get into my pants while I kept avoiding it, even if her preference for, and somewhat-stylish smoking of, all-white 100s ate away at my resolve. There was something just not quite right about Lisa. Nonetheless, she continued her campaign to woo me. We kept going out because Lisa was cute, she smoked with a touch of style (unlike many young smokers at the time), and I did enjoy her companionship— especially when she wasn’t being obvious about “catching” me. Lisa was also a great kisser. My smoking fetish finally got her what she wanted. One night, we went dancing to one of my favorite bands. The place was packed when we got there, but a group of girls I knew was there, and they had a couple of empty seats at their table. They were all around my age and followed the band, and all five of them smoked. Over the years, I’d seen them with More Light 100s, Salem Slim Lights, and Newport Stripes, and I’d danced with all of them before, but any chance I had with any of them was shot after I failed to make a move the first few times we were together.

That night, Lisa ran out of cigarettes and the machine was out of anything menthol. “I know, the machine doesn’t have any menthols,” one of my female friends clucked sympathetically. “I wound up bumming a pack of More menthols from the bartender—he’s a friend. You can share ours if you want.” Sitting among a group of beautiful young More smokers for almost three hours drove me nuts, and when Lisa kissed me goodnight, there was no regretful stepping away on my part. We kissed as I unlocked the door to my building, before and after I opened it, on the way up the three steps to my door, and at my door. We resumed our oral dueling as soon as I locked my door, hastily shucking clothes. Once nude, Lisa broke away and headed directly to the bedroom, giving me a view of her firm body. We fucked twice that night, both times spectacular, and again the next morning when I returned from the bathroom to see her lazily stretched out, enjoying a morning More from the few left in the pack my friend had given her.

Just like that, I was the envy of my bachelor friends: I had a gorgeous, twenty-one-year-old girlfriend who was hot to trot almost every time we were together. Even though Lisa had resumed smoking Salem Light 100s with an occasional pack of Marlboro Light 100s mixed in, it didn’t matter because she was hotter than hell in bed, where we almost always ended our dates. After one particularly epic bout of sex, where we ended up not using the theater tickets we had—Lisa had arrived looking glamorously sexy, and our greeting kisses quickly turned lustful, so we never made it out of the house—Lisa panted, “I can do whatever you want, however you want, baby.” She slurped my cock into her mouth for emphasis. It responded, and she paused, hissing nastily, “I’ll do anything you wanna do, fuck me in the ass, cum in my mouth, on my face, fuck my titties...” It was scary—and hot as hell. Completely out-of-character, I shoved Lisa onto her back and mercilessly pounded at her pussy, cumming with a primal scream after a few minutes of selfish satisfaction. “I mean it, Jack,” Lisa resumed after catching her breath. “All of that—and more if you want it. Just tell me.” Weakly, jokingly, I asked, “Can you smoke 120s in a cigarette holder like a rich heiress?“

Lisa showed up at my door the next night wearing an evening dress with a Virginia Slim 120 in a marbled sea-foam green cigarette holder with a black stem, adding another five or so inches to her extra-long smoke. She took a puff, posed like a movie star from yesteryear. “Did I do that right?” she asked with genuine worry. “I only had time to watch a couple of movies...” My fetish-driven kiss silenced her fretting as I told her how hot she looked, and how hot she made me. We went straight to the bedroom. Dinner would be delayed for something much more important.

Since she seemed so willing to cater to my fantasies, and her elegant smoke after dinner had impossibly raised my dick yet again, I asked her if I could fuck her in the ass. I didn’t have to ask a second time. Lisa took her clothes off in the dining room and zipped into my bedroom, where I found her on her hands and knees, waiting. That was also the first time I really noticed the series of long scars crisscrossing her back, and just how many of them there were. After all, for most of the time she’d been naked with me, Lisa was on her back, or facing me, or the room was dark. The sight drained the blood from my cock. While they were healed, their presence was extremely disturbing. “Lisa... your back...”

“Oh... yeah. My last boyfriend,” she answered. “He liked tying me up and whips n’stuff. Do you wanna do that, too?”

“No. I’m not into that,” I replied.

“Oh, OK,” was her nonchalant response. It was as if she didn’t have any feelings about it. I asked her if that had interested her or turned her on. “No, not really. But he really liked it, so I did it for him.” This was disturbing. Lisa seemed eager, not just willing, to be whatever her boyfriend wanted, and part of me felt—criminal—for taking advantage of it, and guilty for having enjoyed it so much. “Do you still want to fuck me in the ass?” I begged off, saying that I was tired, and asked her if she’d be content to cuddle. “Sure!” Lisa burrowed into the contours of my body, pulled my arms around her, and gave a happy sigh. She slept well. I didn’t.

Horribly conflicted, I avoided Lisa for a few days. I did like her: she wasn’t stupid, vain, or vapid. When she wasn’t preoccupied with sex, we had some very interesting discussions, and she was by far the best-looking, sexiest girlfriend I’d ever had. Moreover, she was incredibly faithful: she routinely blew off other guys who tried to interest her when we were out. Still, that nagging sensation that she was very damaged goods dogged me.

I got confirmation of that the following week. I hadn’t seen Lisa for ten days, not since the night I’d discovered her scars, telling her that I was busy. Therefore, when the phone rang at work, I assumed it was her. “Hello, is this Jonathan Gordon?” said a female voice. I confirmed that it was, figuring that it was a sales call or a recruiter. “Hello, Jonathan, this is Gerri Taylor, Lisa’s mom.” I almost passed out. “I’m sorry to call you at work, but I could only find your business card.” There was a hesitation. “Would it be all right if we meet someplace? I’d like to speak to you about my daughter. I think we need to talk— just you and I.” Worried, yet curious and hopeful that I might get some of my questions about Lisa answered, I arranged for us to meet at lunch the following day.

She looked like a taller, more slender version of her daughter as we sat for lunch. Mrs. Taylor introduced herself, and studied me as I spoke about myself. She hadn’t reacted to the fact that her daughter was crazy in love with a black guy, which I had assumed to be the reason for this meeting without Lisa. “I know you’re wondering why I called you,” she said after we finished our polite introductions. “Honestly, Jonathan, I can’t think of a gentle way to open this conversation—” Here it comes, the old “I’m not prejudiced but” speech... “—but my daughter is mentally ill.” That wasn’t what I expected to hear. “Lisa suffers from... severe attachment disorder. Simply put, she’s incapable of distinguishing like from love, and she will go to extreme lengths in order to hold on to the person she’s convinced she’s in love with. Not being in a relationship is very—difficult for her.“

“Is she violent?” I worried.

“No... I don’t think so—at least she hasn’t been,” her mother answered. “All of her—issues—have been self-directed. Did you ask her out or—” I quickly rehashed the start of our relationship, and her face fell. “Ah, I see. My biggest concern is that my daughter’s condition means that she’s not a good judge of character when it comes to relationships.” Lisa’s mother leaned forward, and softly, yet sincerely warned, “Although Lisa is an adult, I want you to know that you will have to impress me as a boyfriend, and that, for her sake, I will reserve the right to end this by any means necessary. Are we clear?“

“Yes, Ma’am.” I waited a few moments, and then broached the subject from a slightly different tack. “I assume that you’ve— intervened—in her relationships before?”

“You’ve seen her back, then,” were her next calm words, providing the answer. “That is why I no longer allow her to live on her own. It took a while for me to hear about it from her roommate. I worry that she will fall for another deviant, and that I won’t be able to intercede in time—if at all.” Mrs. Taylor gave me a raised eyebrow. “I must say, I was a little— concerned—about you when Lisa started watching old movies and smoking with a cigarette holder.”

“I was joking,” I honestly replied. “I didn’t expect her to run out and do it.“

“Now you know the extent of my daughter’s condition, Jonathan.” She regarded me. “You seem like a reasonable young man. Tell me, what do you think of Lisa, now that you know much more than she would ever tell you.”

“Ummm... I like her... but I’m not sure that I want all that responsibility,” I said. “I mean, I made a joke—I think I said something about smoking like a rich heiress, and now Lisa is walking around doing it, practicing because she’s worried about doing it right for me.” I looked away. “But I’m afraid to break up with her. I don’t know what she’ll do. And the next guy could be worse.”

“This is true,” her mother allowed. “I ended her last relationship, but honestly speaking, you’re a relief. I don’t get a sense that you’re... dangerous. Her last boyfriend—” Mrs. Taylor shuddered. “I didn’t feel safe around him, even in a public place.” We talked some more, mostly about me, and a little about Lisa until our luncheon was over. After a brief argument, I finally let Mrs. Taylor take care of the check. We said our farewells, and after an hour of trying to focus on work, I gave up and took the rest of the afternoon off. I thought about Lisa, how she was damaged goods, that I wasn’t equipped to handle mental illness, and that just because she hadn’t been violent in the past, it was no predictor of her future behavior. All rational trains of thought led to the same logical conclusion: break up. But the thought made my guts twist. The question of what to do about Lisa kept me awake until three in the morning, when I finally figured out why my heart and my head were at such odds. It wasn’t about the sex. Lisa evoked the damsel in distress reflex. To some extent, I wanted to save her from herself, but mostly I wanted to save her from the next guy, someone who probably wouldn’t be as... nice as me.

“Nicole, you can’t keep doing this,” I complained at my daughter. “You’ve got a boyfriend... who you’re living with.”

“Gaston is everything I want him to be,” she replied matter-of-factly. “And in his mind, I’m more than he ever hoped for. He pays the bills, treats me like a queen, but he really doesn’t interest me sexually.” Nicole leaned to me and breathed, “Especially not when I can be with the sexiest man in the world.”

“You shouldn’t say that!” I hissed. “It’s wrong!“

“Only by the narrow definitions of a myopic society—oh, and the genetic implications,” smiled Nicole. “I’ve considered both. The latter is easily enough taken care of, and the former... well, I consider such restrictions silly and archaic, so I’ve decided that they don’t apply to me.”

“Listen to yourself! Don’t you see the signs of narcissistic personality disorder?”

“Oooh, Daddy! Isn’t psychology supposed to be my specialty?” she mocked. Nicole reached into her purse and removed a ten-inch-long, wooden cigarette holder and began to wave it in front of my face, tilting it from left to right, while holding it about mid-stem. “But as much as I enjoy our little philosophical discussions, I think it’s time for you to take your pill. I do have places to be, and I’m sure Mommy would like you back soon.” She continued sweeping the holder in its slow arc. “That’s right... watch the holder, Daddy,” she softly, seductively, purred. “Watch my sexy long holder... and go to sleep for me... the deep, deep sleep, eyes remaining open, where you only want to listen to my voice... and do evvvv-rything I say. Nothing else matters... not society... not incest... there is no guilt, only pleasure, pleasure in watching me... pleasure in listening to me... above all, pleasure in obeying me. That’s it... deep into obedient, horny trance for me...” The only thing I could see was the holder, I only heard her powerfully enchanting words. My thoughts stopped flowing. “Now, take your pill like a good Daddy...“

I reached to accept the diamond-shaped blue pill she offered. “Yes... Ni-ni—” The cigarette holder continued its steady back and forth arc. Back and forth... back and forth... back... and... “—Mistress.” I swallowed the pill, and lay down on the bed as Nicole, no longer my eldest daughter, but my mistress to be obeyed, put a Capri 120 menthol into the holder. She sat next to me, crossed her legs, and lit her extended smoke with a flourish.

“Watch me, Daddy. Watch me smoke just like you taught Mommy to excite you,” my mistress panted. She took another sexy drag and eased her chest forward, silently producing a long, narrow, mesmerizing trail of smoke from her pouting lips for me to view in profile, taking me even further into trance. My cock began to twitch as the Viagra went to work. “Ohhhh... yesss... my sexy daddy is going to make his little girl very happy, very soon.“

Lisa eased her chest forward, chin elevated as she sent a long stream of smoke through perfectly pursed lips. She held the More 120 high with a cocked wrist, her legs crossed, posed in a very fetching manner. It had been five months since my luncheon with her mother, and tonight, we were celebrating. Her mother had given her explicit approval to our relationship, so Lisa and I were now officially a couple. It had taken almost four months of dating three to four times a week, but Lisa had accepted that I wasn’t going to break up with her because she wasn’t the 100% perfect girlfriend. In turn, she became less frightening in her solicitation of my wants and sexual desires, allowing me to grow comfortable with her constant presence very quickly.

On the other hand, she’d done a magnificent job of taking my smoking fetish and running with it. Some women look really hot just by standing there with a cigarette between their fingers. Lisa is one of them. Even when I first met her, I noticed how she would stand, arm slightly extended, cigarette held at the filter between index and middle fingers at the hips, wrist slightly cocked and back slightly arched. Now, in addition to that, my girlfriend was becoming the sexy smoker of my dreams. Lisa had quickly figured out that smoking was an almost-foolproof way to excite me and had used a combination of sexual charm and gamine questioning to draw out my likes and dislikes. She no longer smoked the Salem and Marlboro Light 100s, preferring menthol Eve 120s overall, and Max 120 regulars for her non-menthol change of pace. Lisa had also picked up on my fascination with More smokers without asking, and would buy a pack or two of the 120s from time to time. She confessed that she liked the More Light 100s regulars, which she would use in her growing array of cigarette holders because the 120s didn’t fit. “I wish they would make these in the 120s,” she complained. “They’re just too short.” My usual response was to tell her how hot she looked before hastily dragging her into the bedroom.

Lisa continued to practice smoking, watching movies at my place and other smokers who would attract my attention to figure out what I thought was sexy. She had stopped using cigarette holders all the time immediately after I told her about that lunch with her mother and her mother’s worries, but she just moved them to my place, where her mother wouldn’t see her practice smoking or using the holders. Lisa’s no-longer-flamboyant appearance helped assuage her mother’s fears that I had a thing for whores, and that I was trying to turn her into one.

Her moonlit, creamy french-inhale returned me to the present. Lisa was getting much better at making it seem effortless and at seeming not to notice my attention. “You can tell me to stop whenever you want,” she whispered while the ribbon of smoke she’d just finished producing danced in layers, ghosts visible in the full moon’s light through my bedroom window. I said nothing, my cock just now recovered enough to stir. Lisa dragged again on the slender brown cigarette, lifted her chin, and exhaled completely through her nose in thick twin streams. “I’ll keep going then,” she husked, “but this time... I want you in my ass.”

“Did you want to hear about my dissertation, Daddy? I’m very excited because the research is almost finished,” Nicole said.

“Of course!” I was very proud of our special daughter, who had been blessed not only with the best of our physical features, but our combined intellects as well. Considered an academic genius by any measure, and astonishingly mature for her physical age. Nicole had graduated from high school at sixteen, even though she had completed the coursework almost a year before that. She had continued to live at home while attending a local university, finishing her bachelor’s a week after turning nineteen, and then her master’s before her twenty-first birthday, both summa cum laude. Now, at twenty-three, she was getting ready to start writing her dissertation.

“It’s called, ‘Therapeutic Applications of Reflex-Triggered Deep Trance.’ It could be very beneficial to people who have severe trauma,” Nicole proudly noted, “and perhaps offer a possibility for treatment of deep-seated addictions.”

“I think it’s wonderful that you’re dedicating your research to trauma victims and addicts,” I said. Nicole took off her jacket, revealing a stunning black dress. “Oh, are you planning to celebrate a little later with someone?” I casually asked. Sometime in the previous three years, Nicole had stopped being my little girl, and now Lisa and I were pushing her to grow socially. She’d always been the baby among her immediate social group, and until recently, boys always thought she was too young for them. Not that it mattered now; despite their attention, Nicole thought that the boys her own age were too immature for her.

“Yes,” she replied, surprising me. “At least I hope so.” She reached into her purse and removed a cigarette holder about seven or eight inches in length. “But getting back to my dissertation... It’s an extension of Pavlovian training, but you need a long time to associate the stimulus with the trance response.” Nicole smiled and removed a cigarette case from her purse. “You don’t want the trigger to be too simple, and you want it to be associated with something that’s already has a fairly strong impact on the subject,” my daughter continued as she sat on the edge of the table and crossed her legs. “So the person eventually develops a trance reflex, if you will. And then it becomes a matter of repeating the reflex and guiding the subject deeper.” She removed a More 120 from the case and leisurely placed it into the holder. I lit it for her like any gentleman; she was an adult, and had decided to start smoking at eighteen in spite of the health consequences and increasing social pressures against it. She smoked very effeminately, much like her mother did, even though her smoking held zero attraction for me. I barely noticed, other than the fact that it made her a stylish anomaly among her age group. Tonight, Nicole held the holder high, wrist cocked, smoke curling from the end of her elongated cigarette. With a leisurely tilt of the head, a silky gray ribbon flowed into the last sunbeams of the day from her lips and nose. “Once you’ve got the trance reflex firmly established,” resumed Nicole, “you guide the person deeper and eventually, the person learns to go to that depth with the reflex.” She drew on the holder again, producing a long stream of smoke through her lips. She placed it on the ashtray and asked me a question. I stood up and helped her adjust her dress. “Once you’ve created the reflex at the necessary depth for your purposes, you can avoid some of the normal, higher, cognitive responses, and get to the root of the person’s psyche without inducing trauma created by memories—or actions.” She exhaled enchantingly again, and I unfastened my belt and zipper. My pants slid down as I continued to follow her narration of her research. “This makes it easier to suppress negative thoughts...” Nicole slid out of her dress. “...and emotions that might be—” She spread her legs and indicated that I should come closer. “—counterproductive.” She took one more lengthy drag from the holdered cigarette, and my cock twitched, tapping around her pussy. Ohhhh... help me celebrate, Daddy. Help me celebrate the validation of my theory,” she sighed, reaching out to me. I hugged my daughter, and she gasped joyously as my erection slid inside her.

Lisa moved out of her mother’s house and into my apartment after our six-month anniversary. She wasn’t just a pretty face and hot body, having received a promotion to manager at her job with an accordant raise, quite an accomplishment for someone not yet twenty-two. Sexually, she was everything I could ask for, and happily continued playing to my fetish. One night, we were out at a bar to see one of her co-workers play music. At the break, a woman sitting near the stage held a long, brown— something—not thick enough to be a cigar—aloft... and lit it! Her first drag was deep, and she exhaled an enormously long trail of smoke. I was captivated by this round woman sitting about twenty feet away, apparently smoking a narrow cigar in this tiny nightclub. Lisa disappeared as I watched the redhead’s next long, effortless drag. She casually tilted her head back and sent a long, thick stream of smoke from her nose, the long cigarillo held between exquisitely curled fingers. Feminine and sexy as all hell, in spite of being rounder and not as— beautiful—as my girlfriend. The woman took another drag, no sign of escaping smoke, no snap-inhale, no french-inhale, just long, smooth, and deep. Her chin lifted, there was a pause... and then the stream began, from her lips this time, finishing with a prolonged trail from her nose.

I belatedly remembered that I was with my girlfriend and turned to apologize, but Lisa had vanished. I swiveled back around to see her heading straight for the cigarillo-smoking redhead. Oh no, I thought, what’s she going to do? Although Lisa had never seemed jealous of other women smokers I’d looked at, I’d never been quite this distracted, so I was watching with trepidation as she stopped at the woman’s table, but the confrontation I was half-expecting didn’t happen. Lisa pointed at her friend in the band, the redhead pointed at another band member, and the two women smiled and started talking. They were quickly joined by the indicated musicians, and the guy who was evidently connected with the redhead pulled one of the cigarillos from the box on the table and then I lost sight of my girlfriend in the crowd that was accumulating around the stage. Since it looked like the possibility of a catfight no longer existed, I relaxed, although I did regret losing sight of the white-hot, cigarillo-smoking redhead. The exquisitely feminine way that she handled and smoked the extra-long cylinder was incendiary.

A couple of minutes later, Lisa came through the crowd with a big smile on her face... and one of the super-long cigarillos between her fingers, trailing smoke. My world spun crazily, and I waited impatiently while she talked to some people in the throng that she was passing, obviously showing off her cigarillo. By the time she returned to me, the cigarillo was still much longer than a 120, and I started getting hard just from my first up-close view of my girlfriend’s drag from it. “Guess what?” she bubbled, seeming not to notice my open-mouthed stare. “This is a cigarette! There’s no filter, but it’s a cigarette, and it’s actually pretty good!” Lisa took a steady drag on the very long, brown cigarette, ending in a small, visible snap-inhale. I marveled as she held the smoke for a few seconds before letting some of it go through her nostrils, and a few seconds after that, expelling the rest above my head through her lips. “See? It’s not super-strong like a cigar.” As if to prove the point, she drew again, long and steady, performing an extended french-inhale without effort. I was almost insane with lust at that point. Lisa resumed, “Bobbi—that’s her name—her boyfriend smokes these all the time and they gave me this one— but she also told me where I can find them so I can buy my own. Aren’t they cool?” Drooling, I agreed while watching her draw again on the still-longer-than-120mm cigarette. She raised her chin, pursed her lips, and eased her chest forward to propel a long, narrow trail of smoke into the dimly lit nightclub. “Bobbi says that she prefers using a cigarette holder,” Lisa resumed, picking a piece of tobacco off her tongue, “just because it’s unfiltered, and tobacco gets in her mouth.” My girlfriend bounced in the chair, excited. “These should fit in some of mine. I’m gonna buy a box tomorrow and see.” I dragged her out of the club as soon as she finished her long smoke, heading for a night of crazed sex.

“Breathing deeply, so completely, totally relaxed, letting my voice guide you deeper...” my daughter’s voice said. “That’s it, Daddy, allowing me to take you as deep as I need to for my hypnosis project at school, because you want me to do very well in school. Isn’t that important to you?”

“Yes... very important.” I managed to mumble, despite the growing sluggishness of my thoughts. Nicole had just turned eighteen and was taking Advanced Psychology. She had asked if she could do her hypnosis practicum on me. I warned her that I wasn’t a good hypnotic subject, but as usual, the increased difficulty excited her. She never took the easy way when it came to academics.

“That’s right, anything to help me with school,” Nicole purred. “Now I want you to relax even more for me... so I can prove I can do it... prove that I can hypnotize you so, so very deep. Go completely into deep, deep hypnosis for me, Daddy.” Everything faded into nothingness for me.

“Now I want to try a hypnotic visualization... Do you still want to help me, Daddy? Answer me remaining asleep, from your deep, relaxed, heavy place,” Nicole said. I tried to say yes, but my tongue and lips felt like lead, to say nothing of my thoughts. “Very good Daddy, thank you, now go back very, very deep for me.” Nicole touched me on my forehead, and my mind and body stopped struggling against the blissfully peaceful lassitude.

“I want you to go back in time... you’re dating Mommy... and she’s smoking a very, very long cigarette... Can you see her? If you open your eyes, you can see the memory, you’re there, with her... she’s lighting the—”

“One... sixty... fourrrrr...” The words oozed out in a quiet slur.

“Very good! You can see her now, can’t you? Watching her... such a good memory... the details becoming clearer and clearer... you’re right there watching her smoke the long, long brown cigarette through her holder.. . Mommy’s so elegant, so beautiful and you can see her right there...”

I began thrusting my hips upward, slowly. “Ohhh yesss... isn’t Mommy exciting?” panted Nicole. “But you have to wait... wait until later... when you’re alone with her...” I heard Nicole moan and reflexively tried to move. “No Daddy, relax,” my daughter quickly breathed, “There’s no need to worry... you’re helping me with schoolwork... relax, deeply entranced, helping me by watching Mommy smoke. That’s right... relaxing, body so heavy, only hearing my voice, and seeing Mommy smoke her extra-long cigarette. Just watch, remembering every detail... and get excited... more and more as Mommy takes another puff... ohhhhhhhh... you’re so excited!” I watched my girlfriend Lisa draw on the 164, using the short black holder that served as a tip for the unfiltered cigarette. It didn’t matter that I was seeing something from almost twenty years ago. It was real to me in the present, every luscious detail down to her light pink fingernails, and my cock had become erect. “Now go very, very, very deep for me... everything fades except Mommy smoking... and my voice.... helping me with school... yessss... deeper... and deeper...” The last thing I kind of remember was Nicole’s loud, throaty moan.

“I wish they still made 164s... I bet I’d look really hot with a cigarette holder and one of those,” husked Nicole. Her ladylike hand was wrapped around my cock, moving slowly up and down. There was no alarm on my part; after all, I was only helping my incredibly intelligent daughter with her schoolwork as I had done throughout her life. “Just watch Mommy smoke another one... special... just for you in her medium ivory holder,” she cooed. My body felt so heavy that I couldn’t lift my hips in time with the masturbation, even though her touch made it sizzle. “Feel the excitement... watch her indulge your fetish... yes... the pleasure is growing... feeling more and more intense. But you can’t make any noise... there are people around.” Nicole narrated my fantasy, rendered visible in delicious detail through her hypnotic trance. “Now feel her stroking you as she smokes,” my daughter whispered, and a few seconds later, cum surged and shot from the tip of my cock, obliterating everything.

Lisa had added both varieties of Nat Sherman’s 164mm cigarettes to her change-of-pace brands. She particularly enjoyed smoking one of the extra-long cigarettes at nightclubs, both for the attention it gained her and to give me memorable sightings to rev my motor: at least one other woman would usually be brave enough to smoke one, or share with her friends, especially the pastel-colored Fantasia 164s. More often than not, I would have to discreetly rearrange the bulge in my pants before we left—Lisa was very good at turning other young female smokers into 164 fans, and taking advantage of my fetish-increased libido when we were alone afterwards. “I love it when you’re super-excited,” she said one night after giving the five 164s she had with her away to a bachelorette party. The young women, all of them beautiful twenty-somethings, sat with us for the majority of the evening, hamming it up as they smoked the unfiltered 164s, flirting with and teasing just about every guy in the bar, but especially me.

The following week, Amy, Lisa’s former roommate, came back into town for the weekend. Amy was a short, slender blonde, beautiful and blue-eyed. Lisa told me that Amy had the hots for me when they lived together, but Amy had to leave town for college before she could do much more than flirt with me a little. Amy was in town because her boyfriend was a stage hypnotist who was booked here that weekend. “It gave me the perfect excuse to come back and see everybody!” she bubbled at dinner with Lisa, me, and a bunch of assorted friends, and gave all of us free VIP tickets to the eleven p.m., adults-only show. “It’s a really fun show! He’s really good at hypnotizing people. He even does it to me sometimes for fun.”

The group induction at the show left me feeling just a little fuzzy, but Lisa quickly went all the way under. Since she was in the VIP section, and was associated with the hypnotist, she wasn’t selected for the stage in spite of being an excellent hypnotic subject. The show was hilarious, R-rated bordering on X, with plenty of tits on display for the most part. However, when he turned a luscious, stacked blonde into a zombie slave, saying, “Yes, Master. I am your hypnotized slave. I must obey your command,” My cock shot to erection inside my pants. Lisa happened to place her hand on my leg during the skit as the hypnotist was dropping his temporary slave in and out of trance. “Oh my goodness!” she whispered, “Guess I’ve found something else you really like!” After the show, Lisa asked me if I wanted to hypnotize her like that. I said no, worrying that I wouldn’t know how, and that I might cause her some harm. She countered with, “But you like it—maybe even more than watching me smoke.” I told her that she was such a sexy smoker that it was unlikely. “Yeah, but think of all the fun you’d have with me as your sexy-smoking hypnotic slave... powerless to resist any of your commands,” she breathed. Her description of the fantasy had me more than a little hot and bothered, but I was able to resist by thinking of how much more screwed up I could make her by accident. Even though Lisa was an awesome girlfriend, she was still mentally ill, and I was her protector. I resisted until she stood up, stretched her arms out in front of her and said, “Yes, master. I obey,” in a monotone, and all my reserve crumbled. I commanded her to undress sexily, which she did, and then to the bed, where I fucked her well into Sunday morning, charged by her faked hypnotic state.

Acting hypnotized became Lisa’s favorite way of inciting nasty sex. While she still enjoyed seducing me via my smoking fetish, her fake trance excited me on a primal level, and she eagerly accepted the physicality of my reduced restraint. “I know you like it when I play hypnotized,” she purred one night. “So why won’t you do it for real? I’ve been reading all about hypnosis, and it sounds like I’d be easy to hypnotize.” I protested, citing too much of a good thing. She accurately countered by noting that I never had any issues with her smoking to seduce me. It was our first fight, and it ended with her pouting, “Fine! Then if you want me to act hypnotized, you’re gonna have to hypnotize me for real!” Lisa went to the bedroom huffing, “And don’t think I’m gonna smoke 164s—or anything else— for you!” on her way, and she slammed the bedroom door. I consoled myself with the altruistic thought that I was avoiding the hypnosis for her sake. However, I underestimated Lisa’s willpower; she abruptly stopped smoking around me. When I asked her if she’d quit, the answer was no, but she told me that she had decided not to smoke in the apartment—which also extended to the nights when we went out. This was a side of my extremely accommodating girlfriend I’d never seen. The bed grew cold, I got horny and stayed that way. I held out for a month, thinking that she would eventually give in because of her attachment disorder. No such luck; I think she knew that I wasn’t going to kick her out or break up, so I literally had zero leverage. All she would say was, “Y’know, if you hypnotized me, you could tell me to smoke sexy and have sex with you.” I didn’t appreciate her blackmail and held out for another week, but every night when we went to bed, it was the same thing. She would cuddle close and sweetly breathe, “Y’know, if you hypnotized me, you could tell me to smoke sexy and have sex with you.”

Five and a half weeks without sex was par for the course when I was single, but Lisa had spoiled me, and my horniness ate at my resolve. I checked out a book on hypnotism from the library, only to return it the next day, embarrassed that I had even considered putting Lisa under. Two days later, I checked it out again—along with a couple of how-tos and a history of hypnotism, and a couple of weeks after that, Lisa was on her knees deep-throating me from the depths of hypnotic trance. With that, I had unknowingly started to sow the wind.