The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“You know I’ve been working on my Italian,” she said, “so I’ve been seeing a hypnotist. . .”

“What? That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Well, shit, it’s hard, without going to a class or anything, and I need to make time to study, so I thought this might help, if I could fit some Italian in between my other things, maybe this would be useful for maintaining my concentration. It’s all about helping me tune the world out and focus. It’s like sleep learning. . .” She was a little defensive, I suppose, naturally.

“What’s your trigger phrase?” I interjected without giving it any real thought.

“What?”

“C’mon, you know what I mean. There’s a shorthand phrase your guy uses to put you back in a trance after you’ve been hypnotized before. So he can do it to you quickly without all the silly rigmarole with the swinging watches and stuff. . .”

“It’s not a him; it’s a her. She’s a woman.”

“Whatever. What’s your trigger?”

“Oh, it’s a nonsense one, just kind of meaningless, you know. . .”

“Well you can say it, can’t you?”

“It’s, um, oh it’s something like ‘magic is science and art. . .’ Wait, I’m not telling you this. You think I’m crazy?” She giggled—something out of character for her—maybe to soften the insult.

I said: “Magic is the science and art of causing change to occur in conformity with the will.”

I turned around and looked her right in the eye, to see if she was still laughing.

We were sitting in her husband’s car, the big new Mercedes sedan—me in the front passenger seat and her in the back, both of us waiting for her husband, Martin—my second or third best friend—who was inside the store picking out two or three bottles of wine. It would be expensive wine, like everything else he’d bought since I’d known him—twelve years of him picking up the check and letting me in on the secrets of life, a little at a time. I’m not complaining. I was in the same business as him now and beginning to get rich. Martin was already far, far more wealthy than I would ever be—or ever willing to work for.

We were going to dinner, stopping on the way to pick up my then-girlfriend, Susan. Martin’s wife was in the back and I had to turn around to look at her, also keeping an eye out the driver’s side window for her husband. So Franzie the serious student of the Italian language was seeing a hypnotist, and I’d just carelessly invoked her trigger.

She responded with a wide-eyed look up at me that I hoped might indicate acquiescence. Okay.

“You’re a hooker,” I said decisively. “You only do it part-time, and you’re obsessively careful to keep Martin in the dark about it. You got started when you were still modeling. You like sex and you like money, but you don’t need the money, of course. . . let’s see, you like taking cash for sex because. . . Well, it’s extremely arousing, isn’t it? Yes, that’s what makes you horny, taking the money and the dick and keeping them both secret. You like that. I happen to know all about it, I always have, but he doesn’t have any idea. I’ve kept your secret. . . Shit.” I saw Martin coming out of the store with a big plastic sack.

I looked back and Franzie was sitting there grinning. I thought to hell with it: in for a penny in for a pounding.

I spoke quickly: “You can’t stop; you like it too much. You’ll do almost anybody for enough money. More money makes you more passionate. Say five hundred dollars is good for an hour. You can’t ever quite bring yourself to turn it down, that excitement, that fun. Now listen, I’m gonna wake you up in a minute. Every word I’ve said to you is the absolute truth, as you already know. In fact, everything I ever say to you is the truth, but when you wake up you won’t remember that it was me you heard it from. You won’t remember this at all, any of this, or that I know your trigger or that I ever used it. . .”

Martin’s hand was on the door handle. I tried to think of what I might’ve missed. There wasn’t any time. I said “Wake up on the count of three. One two three, go!”

Martin was back in the driver’s seat, saying, “I think I’ve got some good stuff here.” He handed me the sack of wine bottles. “How you doing, Bee? You okay?” This to Franzie in the back, using her private pet name, turning his head, glancing, taking in the whole car at once as he was wont to do. I was thinking he was bigger than me and I would have to surprise him in some way, move very fast. . .

I looked at Franzie. We’d all been friends for a long time. Years. I was terrified.

She turned a little sideways, crossed her long legs in the confined space of the back seat, and returned her husband’s gaze right up into his eyes. “Good,” she said to him. “Good stuff.”

As he turned back and started the car I was still looking my question at her. She smirked at me and winked.

Franzie used to model, back in the day, before I knew Martin, when he was still working at Southern California Edison. I don’t know all of it, how they met; I guess he went to read her meter. Anyway, she finally gave it all up a couple years ago, whatever it was, and let him take over her full-time support. Occasionally she liked to goad him about jacking up his fees, making more money, but she didn’t really care. He made lots and they both liked to spend it. They spent it together. It wasn’t like Martin ever let anyone pressure him, even her, even now that they were married. He spent ten or twelve hours a day working because he enjoyed it. Franzie helped him out with the business some, but she also liked to spend a lot of time by the pool, working on her tan.

Franzie looked incredibly good in that tan, too good to not notice, though I would never have admitted I noticed. I had always been very, very careful not to notice her. Nothing had ever been said about her looks, or her career, or past life, or anything else about her in the years I’d known them. I’d never have said anything about her to anybody. Or him either, for that matter. I knew too much about Martin’s own infidelities, more than I wanted to know. Something he had mentioned casually in conversation once had led me to believe that people who crossed him might wind up resting peacefully underneath someone’s new swimming pool. I didn’t want to ever cross him, not in any way he might find out about, especially in any matter involving money. Money was important to him, more than to me. Franzie was too, I suppose, important to him, though that was a different matter, a matter of proprietorship.

So we stopped and picked up Susan at her work. She got in the back with Franzie and they gossiped. They liked each other okay, but they weren’t real friends. Susan was quite a bit younger. Martin and I talked about the business, like we always did.

We had dinner at a fish place. It wasn’t bad. Martin grabbed the check and went off to talk finance with somebody in the kitchen for some unknowable reason of his own. Suzie was in the restroom. Franzie had gone after her, but she was coming back first. I touched Franzie on the shoulder and said: “Magic is the science and art of causing change to occur in conformity with the will.”

Franzie turned her face to me and looked blank. I said: “Anytime I hand you paper money of any sort you will see only one hundred dollar bills. Afterwards you can put it in your purse or wallet or whatever and it’ll be whatever it is, it won’t mean anything unusual to you, but when I give it to you it’ll all be hundreds. Do you understand?”

I really wished I hadn’t asked that question. I don’t know what I was thinking. Having asked, I had no choice but to wait for the answer. I was scared that it wouldn’t work. I was scared of what she might say—as scared of what I might find out as I was of what I might miss.

“I understand,” she said, bobbing her head, and I breathed again.

“Okay. I’m gonna wake you up now, and like before, you won’t remember. But it’s all true. It’s always true. You got it?”

“Yes,” she said in a monotone. “I’ve got it.”

“Okay. One two three, wake!” I saw Martin coming back from the kitchen and Suzie from the restroom simultaneously. Franzie had that blank look again. I handed her all the cash I had in my wallet. Four ones, I think. Plus a twenty, a ten, and three fives. “Count it and put it away,” I said. “Quick! They’re coming back.”

“Nine hundred dollars?” said Franzie to me suspiciously and I felt a little more relaxed. “Just what do you expect me to do for this?”

“You know damn well what I expect. Put it away for god’s sake; they’re almost back here.”

“Oh, no. You don’t really want to do that. We can’t. I mean I can’t. There is totally no way.”

“Yes I do and yes we’re going to. You have to put that money away now, before they see it.”

She folded the wad twice and stuffed it into the back pocket of her ridiculously tight designer jeans. Just in time, I thought, and wondered what would go through her mind tomorrow when she pulled out the forty-nine dollars she was going to find there. (I never learned.)

Martin dropped us at my house and we all went in for a late drink. None of us ever drank more than a glass or two of any kind of liquor, except me, and that certainly wasn’t going to happen around all of them. I carried in the bag of wine bottles and chose a Cabernet to open. It took a while before I had a chance to speak to Franzie alone. I stopped her in the hallway.

“Magic is the science and art of causing change to occur in conformity with the will.”

Then, “You’ve been thinking about this and you realize you’re gonna have to go through with it. It’s so completely insane that it’s really getting you worked-up. In fact you think you want to do it as soon as possible, maybe tomorrow if you can get away. You could come to my office in the afternoon. . . I’ve given you genuine fucking money and you accepted it. You can’t give it back now because this whole thing is too perfect and you’re too into it. It’s too hot to pass up. And maybe you can get some more money from me and that’s even hotter for you. . . And we’ve known each other for years and we would never do this. There’s no way in hell you can do this and you know you’re going to. We’re going to. We’re going to do it anyway, in spite of the risk, and that’s the hottest thing of all.

“So think about it tonight. Don’t stop thinking about it. But never say anything to Martin. And remember you didn’t hear any of this from me. Okay, got to hurry now, one two three wake up.”

She blinked. Before she could say anything I slipped her a bit of paper with my business land-line number scribbled on it. I didn’t want her using my cell. I said: “I’ll be in the office tomorrow by eleven. Call me then and let me know when you’re coming. I’ll have another six bills waiting for you when you get there.”

She just nodded, but maybe I thought I could imagine that she shuddered a little bit, too. We sat around for a while and finished that single bottle of wine. All four of us remarked that it was good. Then Martin and Franzie drove home. He left me the wine.

In the morning I was up and out of the house fast. Stopped for a half-gallon of vodka. Got to the office and spent an hour cleaning up. It’s my building and I’m the only one in it, so the place can get a little grungy. People rarely come there; I work with words, not people. I’m not much used to being around people other than my few associates, so I thought I needed something to cut the nervousness. I poured myself a water glass full of Russia’s finest and settled down to wait by the phone. I was ready and drinking by ten-fifteen. I was absolutely sure the phone wasn’t going to ring. Things like that don’t happen—not the next morning, not in daylight. I swallowed some more alcohol to ease my sorrow.

Franzie called precisely at eleven, just like I’d told her to. The first thing she said was, “I can’t go through with this. I simply can’t. I’ll give you back the money. We’ll forget it ever happened.”

“You cannot,” I told her, “give it back. Franzie, you’ve done this before. Plenty of times with plenty of guys. Guys you didn’t even like. Guys you didn’t know who they were or where they’d been. It’s never been a problem.”

“Yes, but not with you. I know you. I have to see you all the time. It’d make me feel dirty.”

“No, you haven’t been with me. But, then, Franzie, the thing, the reality you’ve got to accept is just that magic is the science and art of causing change to occur in conformity with the will. . .”

Silence. “Hello? Hello, Franzie?”

“What do you want me to do?” Softly, leaden sounding, like the lights were on but nobody was home.

I felt my heart trying to run away through my ribs and all I could think of was those long, long deeply-tanned legs.

“All right,” I said, “Pay attention now. My voice is all you can hear and every word booms in your head like you’re trapped in a bell tower. You want very much to do this with me. It’s terribly wrong and we’ll both regret it for the rest of our lives. That’s why it’s so exciting, because we have to do it anyway. You keep thinking about it and the more you think, the more committed you become. I’m gonna give you directions to my office and you’re gonna drive over here. You will be here this afternoon at three. You will be on time. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, I understand you. I will be on time.”

I took a long breath and went on. “Before you come you’re gonna get ready. You’re gonna dress up for me, blatantly sexy, like the slut you are. But you’re not some low-life streetwalker. You’re gonna look amazing, because this is about to be the highlight of your nasty, shameful, lust-filled secret existence and you’re gonna make sure we both enjoy it. You’re gonna dress like a thousand-dollar-an-hour call girl and blow my mind like a tab of acid. Make-up, hair, clothes, jewelry: the whole banana split. You’re gonna look like you’re worth all the money. You believe you will be. You’ll be fucking worth it to both of us. Every fucking penny.

“Now, when I wake you up, You’ll go get ready for me. Make absolutely sure Martin doesn’t notice anything, either. You know exactly what to do, because you have long experience of these things, don’t you? Now, forget I said anything and all that, just like before. Ready?”

“Yes. I’m ready.” Flat, emotionless, controlled.

”One two three—wake up!

“Franzie, you will be here at three and you will be ready for action. Be prepared to bend over and meet my joystick. You’re gonna be introduced forcibly to the original membrum virile. Now, do you know how to get here?”

She didn’t, so I told her. When she read my address back to me I definitely heard her breath catch in her throat. We had some emotion going now, I reflected. I was breathing hard myself when I hung up the phone. I drank some more vodka and fingered the seven one-dollar bills I had folded in my pocket.

Three o’clock straight-up I watched her little red convertible pull into my lot. I was looking out the front window as she came toward the building. I noticed she’d had her hair done. For me? Christ she looked sexy. Those legs! How can she be so graceful walking in those impossibly high heels? I realized that I was kind of drunk and my dick was harder than it had any right to be under the circumstances. I let her in the front door.

“Hello, asshole,” she said to me, simpering.

I gave her the seven dollars and she tucked it away.

“You look great,” I said.

“Thanks. I think so, too. I was thinking about you when I was getting dressed. This is going to be the most horrible thing I’ve ever done and I can’t wait to get started. I’m horny as hell and I’m not quite sure why.”

I said: “Magic is the science and art of causing change to occur in conformity with the will.”

I went back behind my desk and made her sit down across from me. There were some things I wanted to say to her and I’d written them down. These were things I’d been thinking about, planning for a long time. I wanted to get them right. This is what I needed from her, for today and beyond in the future. (I said I was drunk.)

I spoke slowly and clearly and required her to nod in affirmation as I pronounced each item, each article of faith. I don’t think I slurred hardly at all.

“Okay,” I said. “Listen carefully, Bee, ’cause here’s the rub: You like to be looked at, to show off your body, especially your legs. You’ve got spectacular legs. You’re a compulsive exhibitionist. You’ve always known this about yourself, and you’ve understood all these things I’m telling you implicitly. It’s nobody’s fault; it’s just the way you are.

“Also, you have a thing for high heels, you like to wear them. I mean, you never really feel comfortable unless you have some heels on, no matter what else you’re wearing, even if it’s only earrings. You like to keep your heels on during sex, too. So I guess you’ve got a major league shoe fetish.

“You always feel like you don’t have enough shoes in your closet; you constantly badger Martin to buy you more high heels. You like to look at them and fondle them; you like to buy them. You like to steal them. You like to wear them and look at yourself in the mirror wearing them. All of these things make you hot. Thinking about how high-heeled shoes make you hot—makes you hot.

“When guys look at your legs and get boners your pussy automatically gets wet. You enjoy giving those guys hard-ons and thus making yourself horny, even when it’s entirely inappropriate. So you’re kind of a tease. Teasing makes your thoughts blur and your nipples get erect and your breasts become extra-sensitive. When a guy—like me, for instance—looks at you and you know he wants you, that makes your clit swell up and throb. You’re all about sex. You are a sex object.

“You very much like to suck cocks. Especially cocks that are big and hard because of looking at your legs. You’re very good at cock-sucking, too. The guys you blow never complain. You’re proud of that. You don’t think blowjobs are cheating on Martin. That’s too bad, because the idea of cheating gets you hot. . . But when a guy appreciates you, and shows it physically, you feel like his boner belongs to you and you deserve to have it for yourself. When you make some random guy ejaculate in your mouth, it tastes fucking great. It tastes like victory.

“More than anything you get off on exposing yourself, being looked at. When we’re together with Martin and Susan you like to tease me with your body, ’cause you know I can’t do anything but look. You only fuck for the dough, but when you get paid a lot of money, you don’t hold back. Like with me today. Or other times when you’re at home with Martin. You like to fuck plenty well when there’s a genuinely significant amount of cash at stake, and he gives you more money than anybody. You don’t hold back with him, do you?”

“Of course not.” As always, dully, almost bored.

I reached for my glass and saw it was empty.

“Jesus, I can’t go on with this. That’s enough for this lesson anyway. I’m about to explode here. You got all that? Oh, hell, never mind trying to answer. No time will wait for any man, and this one has arrived for me. One two three, Franzie, wake up!”

Pause.

She looked around at my dump and said acidly: “So, I think you’ve been staring at my legs long enough now. You paid me. You made me feel like a filthy whore, which was great, by the way. I’ve really enjoyed it. But I’ve got other things to do at the moment. Are we going to fuck today or what?”

“I don’t think I’m up for it. I’ve had too much to drink. How about you just suck my dick?”

She did that, very professionally. It didn’t take long. I came all over her face while I looked at her legs. She cleaned herself up and left. I went in my bathroom and threw up. I drank some more and passed out on the crummy floor of my crummy office.

I figured things would go better if I tried it again. You always figure that.