The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

She waved at him through the window from the garden, her arm stretched to the sky, her arm pit shaved and exposed.

The twirling of her hand caught his attention and he panicked and waved back. He had no idea how long he’d been staring at her. He had disappeared into that weird trance state again when he walked past his window and saw her.

She had her hair pulled back in a bun from her bandana. She was wearing gardening gloves and boots, but was pretty bare otherwise. She was in low-cut denim shorts, and a striped knitted crop top that alternated red, green, yellow, white.

No bra.

She laughed as he waved back at her, slapping her bare thigh in amusement as her waving hand dropped.

Enter the primitive male thought in his brain, whether he liked it or not: “she wants me.”

“Shut up,” he said, out loud. He found himself staring at her as she bent down to pull weeds, shook his head violently and turned away from the window. The crop top was just a few loose nots from behind. He could see her entire back, her pronounced shoulder blades and spine. He looked down at his bulging cock through his shorts. He was thankful his window wasn’t floor-to-ceiling.

He drew the blinds, Google searched “boobs”, pulled up the first image he could find and jerked himself as fast as he could, focusing intently on ANYTHING ELSE to get off to. He was switching tactics—the perverted thoughts hadn’t gone away with sleep, and the best short-term solution he could think of was to make sure he was as un-horny as possible.

When he finished, he went and took a shower, to cleanse himself. As the hot water ran down his body he closed his eyes and tried reflecting on the dream and what it had meant, feeling safe to finally analyze it during his refractory period. She had called him “master”. His mind wandered back to dinner when he had started toying with the butter knife, and trying to convince her that her eyes were getting heavy…

He found himself thinking back to old cartoons he used to watch. The revelation was so corny and odd and specific he actually kind of smirked in amusement.

Was I trying to HYPNOTIZE my mom?

His smirk turned to a smile and his inner monologue adopted a love-struck voice.

She’s already hypnotized ME.

He opened his eyes and looked down. He was stroking himself.

“Goddammit”, he said, immediately stopping and grabbing the shampoo bottle. “You fucking disgusting pervert fuck.”

After dressing in the bathroom, he looked at himself in the mirror. He approached it, scowling at himself. It was time for a lecture.

“You need to pull yourself together”, he told his reflection through gritted teeth. “You’re having intrusive thoughts? Fine. Everybody does. But you’re not an animal. YOU. Are a MAN. You’re gonna go out there, and you’re gonna stop being weird. You’re gonna stop being gross. She’s—” he didn’t want to finish the sentence. But he clenched his fist and started again—if he was going to overcome this, he had to be able to confront it. “She’s your MOTHER. Just remember that. Keep thinking it. You just need to remember again what it’s like to not sexualize a woman.”

He started speaking more patiently with himself. “Hang out with her. Talk to her. Bond with her. She said she wants to spend time together. That’s perfect practice. The dirty thoughts will go away once you remember that she’s not an object, and- AGAIN—that she’s your MOTHER.”

He felt satisfied with himself, and stepped out of the bathroom, down to the kitchen.

She walked inside, then made an “oops!” face and stepped back outside to the welcome mat. She stomped her boots rapidly against it, her breasts bouncing in resp-

She’s your mother.

He continued to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. She walked in again. “Hey, hun!”

“Hey!” he said, showing effort. She wiped her forehead, sweat dripping from her hair onto her-

She’s your MOTHER.

He poured himself a glass of water. “Would you like a glass?”

“Yes, please!” she said, exasperated.

He grabbed a second glass and began pouring, his mind wandering to hypothetical substances he could slip into her drink when she wasn’t look-

She’s your MOTHER.

She was behind him, he could smell the sweat and dirt on her. She grabbed the glass from the counter. “Thanks,” she said breathily, and tilted her head up, gulping the water. He watched her stretched neck as she swallowed again and again, her veins-

She’s your mother.

“What was that, dear?” He had said it out loud.

“I, uh…” he stammered for a sec, swirling the glass in his hand nervously. “I said, ‘jeez, it’s summer.’” What a dumb thing to say, but he hoped it work.

“Oh, yeah!” she laughed. “Yeah, it’s a hot one out there!”

He took the glass from her hand. “Want a refill?”

She laughed again. “Probably should!”

He poured again. He handed it to her, and she chirped “thank you!”

“May I assist you in the garden?” he heard himself say. He tried not to visibly wince.

She looked surprised, but smiled her beautiful white teeth excitedly. “Sure! I would LOVE that!”

He wasn’t wincing because it was tedious. He was wincing because he had caught himself frantically trying to offer his services to her with every opportunity.

You’re hoping she’s gonna tell you you’re a “good boy”.

It was true, and as she turned her back again to him—her soft, naked back—and began her gleeful hip-sway walk back outside, he began to worry for both their sakes.

She’s your mother she’s your mother she’s your mother she’s your mother she’s-

Things actually got easier once outside. Gardening offered plenty of physical engagement to distract his mind, and the fact that they were visible to all the neighbors especially deterred him from sneaking any glances.

He took the afternoon striking up small talk, trying to “de-sexualize” as best as he good, but also happily obeying her instructions as she guided him.

The combination of the physical and mental toll left him entirely drained by sunset. To his relief he found himself too winded to feel aroused. Sure, there were still moments here and there. She had showered and changed into baggy grey sweats and a white tanktop this time. STILL no bra—plenty of sideboob. But he found himself more hungry for food than for her this time.

They had a simple dinner—spaghetti—and fairly wholesome chit-chat. The night winded down, and he dug his fork into one of the last few bites in his bowl. He twirled the fork, twisting the noodles. Around… and around… and around…

He felt a familiar urge as he followed the spiraling movement. He looked up at her.

The question slipped out, and worse, in a voice like he was trying to enchant her with intrigue:

“Have you ever been hypnotized?”

She slurped a noodle, her lips puckered, and looked over at him with confusion and amusement.

A totally harmless question, he was reassuring himself. Kinda random, but nothing inherently pervy, right?

She smiled, but cocked her head. “Why?”

He continued to twirl the fork around and around. “Just curious.” He said. He figured at this point it would be weirder if he said something like “never mind”. He had to see this through, right?

Her eyelids softened, and she rested a cheek on her fist, raising an eyebrow and smiling at him. “I have,” she answered. She answered in a similar tone to how he’d phrased the question.

“What for?” he doubled-down on the interview process. Still spinning his fork.

She rolled her eyes, “WELL,” she prefaced. “Your mom used to be quite the smoker in her youth. I know, crazy, your mom was cool?” she chuckled at her own lame joke. “But then I started worrying about my health. Sooooo, I saw a hypnotist.”

“And it worked?”

“Mhm!” she looked up at the ceiling. “I remember thinking ‘this has to be bullshit’, right?—pardon my French—but ever since then, I’ve found the idea of smoking just kinda icky.” She scrunched her nose for emphasis.

“How did he hypnotize you?”

He was spinning the fork AGGRESSIVELY now. She looked down from the ceiling at him, and then down at the fork. She analyzed it as it spun around and around. It took everything within him to not snap his fingers and command her to cluck like a chicken. Just to test if it worked. A silly command that, if it failed, she would just assume he was being silly, nothing more.

But her gaze eventually left the fork and back to him. She smiled slyly, and leaned towards him. She put her hand in one palm with her elbow on the table, her other forearm resting against the table, pushing her cleavage up out of her shirt, already exposing a lot more than he was mentally braced for.

He successfully maintained eye contact, but thought his grip on the fork might snap it in half.

“Are you trying to HYPNOTIZE me, John?” she teased.

He stopped spinning the fork. He set it in his bowl, and threw his hands up sarcastically, like he was at gun point.

“Ah, you got me,” he said like a bad actor. Fuck it. This is all harmless fun, right?

She did a melodramatic gasp, then with intense eyes, reached back at her bowl and grabbed her own fork, baring it like a weapon. “Not if I hypnotize you FIRST!” she exclaimed competitively, and began to comically sway it in front of his face.

Yes please yes please yes please yes please-

“Psh!” he scoffed, and started a defiant supervillain monologue, “I can’t be hypnotized, I am too powerful for—” and then very intentionally widened his eyes and dropped his jaw, spinning his head playfully as he followed the fork. He made his voice extra goofy to mask how arousing this was to him, as he began saying “MUST… DO… WHATEVER… MOM… SAYS…”

She snorted laughter, and still spinning the fork, started to drone in a cartoon ghost voice “YoooUUUuuuu will dooOOOoooo the dishesssssss…”

“I… will do… the dishes…”

She let out a “YES!” like she’d just won whatever game this was, then snapped her fingers.

John blinked a couple times. He stood up and grabbed his bowl in one hand, and extended his other for her’s. “May I take your dishes, mother?”

She feigned surprise. “Oh? Are you sure you don’t want ME to do them?”

“No no, I want to do them…” he said, as she handed her dish to him with a playful, evil grin.

“Gosh,” she said, a sly chuckle. “I wonder what OTHER chores I could get you to help with, now that I know I can hypnotize you.”

He faked confusion. “Hypnotize me? What are you talking about?” (This was still all harmless fun, right?.... right?)

Her mouth made an “ah!” like a lightbulb went off in her head, and she played along. “Oh, nothing! Forget I ever said anything.” She winked.

“Forget what?”

She snorted another laugh. “Never mind. As you were!”

“Yes master”, he replied, and she started belly-laughing. He enjoyed her amusement (ALL HARMLESS FUN, RIGHT!?)

“Well,” she said, when she had regained composure, “since you so kindly offered to clean up here, totally on your own… I think I’m gonna go to bed.”

“Sounds good,” he said, carrying everything over to the kitchen sink.

She said thanks, and started towards the stairs, and stopped, turning back to him. “Oh! I forgot to ask YOU!” she exclaimed.

“Hm?”

“Have YOU ever been hypnotized?”

He turned back to her, her hands on her hips, her eye brow raised with curiosity.

He wanted to make her laugh at him again.

“Mom, I can’t be hypnotized,” he scoffed, “now, if you’d please, I MUST do these dishes.”

For a couple seconds she looked almost annoyed this time, that he hadn’t answered her honestly. But then she started giggling again, and shook her head. “Good night, dummy.”

“Good night”, he said. And he did the dishes. Towards the end, he started wondering how much of this was actually him just pretending.

He dried his hands, went to his room, shut the door, dropped his pants, and jerked himself off until he came.

He had another dream that night. He was doing the dishes, drool spilling from his mouth onto them as he did.

“John”, a seductive voice said behind him. A stench of cigarette smoke filled his nose, quickly transforming to intoxicating, floral scents, clouding his mind and dulling his senses.

He turned as if hovering on the floor. It was her. She was back in her knitted stripe crop top and denim shorts. Her hands were on her hips, which were poking out from above her shorts which were falling down her legs a bit. But he found himself fixated on her chest, as the stripes covering them began to flash different colors, up and down, up and down, up and down, like a strobe pattern. His mind compromised, he continued to drool, as she smiled softly and spoke again, her words smoothing out his brain.

“It’s time, John”, she said. “Let’s go to your bed.”

Another wet dream. This time he just laid there, staring at the ceiling, mumbling “you sick piece of shit”, on repeat.