The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

My name is Regina Matthews, Gina to my friends. I’m an architect, and I just became the Matthews in Franklin, Carmody, and Matthews, LLC. I’m 30 years old, I’m married to a wonderful woman named Alyssa.

Where to begin?

Alyssa and I had been roommates throughout college; she double-majored in nutrition and physical education—no surprise, because she was amazingly fit, toned, and limber, curving in the right places to show she was feminine, but definitely in the 99th percentile of fitness. I am in decent shape, but she makes me feel . . . flabby.

I’d done the BUG thing (Bisexual Until Graduation); she’d been what some right-wingers would call “super straight.” She didn’t have anything against LGBT people; Alyssa is very much live and let live.

She just didn’t find women sexually desirable.

At least, not during college . . .

We graduated from University Colorado Denver in 2013, and we’d both found employment in Colorado Springs, just down I-25. So it was kind of natural for us to rent a condo together; we’d always gotten on extremely well from Day One at UCD, as if we’d been BFFs from kindergarten. She’d become a fixture at my parents’ house in Idaho Springs on our weekends away from school, and I’d met her family in Grand Junction on vacations.

In 2014, my life got turned upside down. I was the last of three kids. The eldest was Michael, and the less said about him, the better. He’s doing life without parole for murder, arson, stock fraud, forgery, et cetera, and so on, and so forth. And he’s utterly unrepentant about it.

My older sister Tracy went into the Army at 17, married a fellow soldier named Chris Angell, and had Rachel in 2010, when I was 19. Rachel was a wonderful little girl, able to put a smile on anyone’s face.

Four years later, Christopher and Tracy Angell were on a second honeymoon after he got back from Afghanistan; Rachel was with my parents for a week.

They were driving back to Fort Carson when a drunk driver got onto the freeway going the wrong direction and without lights. They might have survived—except their car had rolled into a deep ravine, and the roof collapsed.

And my mom & dad had to tell little Rachel that her Mommy & Daddy had gone to Heaven.

Alyssa, when she heard the news, was silent for a long moment.

And then she said, “Gina, I’ll help you take care of Alyssa.”

“Mom and Dad said—”

Alyssa held a hand up, and I stopped talking. I’d learned over five years that the hand meant “You haven’t really thought this through, Gina.”

“Gina, your mom is 64, and your dad is 68. Chris’ parents are maybe a decade younger, but they aren’t really able to take on a little kid, either.”

I winced, as the fact that I was a late kid—very much a surprise to my parents—popped up again.

So, at 23, I was officially Rachel’s guardian. And from the moment she moved in with us, we felt like a family. Rachel was a sweet little girl, and we’d worked with the County people on what she’d need (mostly, a stable home life, which we could provide).

Alyssa took the lead on making sure we had good, nutritious food, and she was sort of the “daddy” in terms of making sure Rachel behaved (although we both worked at it). I fell into the “mom” role as the more nuturing and comforting parent.

Ten months later, Rachel referred to Alyssa as “Mommy” and then said, “Oops.”

I saw Alyssa’s eyes shining with tears, and decided Rachel needed to take a bath and start getting ready for bed.

And I guess that’s where this really started.

After I’d gotten Rachel to bed, I headed back down to the living room. I could hear Alyssa sniffling.

I sat on the couch next to her.

I asked, “Want to talk?”

She cried on my shoulder for a bit, then said, “You know I love her.”

I giggled. “You, too, huh?”

“Yeah. And I know that . . . well, you’re going to meet him. Or her.”

We stayed on that couch for a long time, crying together.

She cried because she feared she’d lose Rachel.

I cried because I’d already found that special someone. And I couldn’t have her.

Because Alyssa Bontrager, my BFF since frosh year, wasn’t into women.

Alyssa got a little distant after that. She’d interact with Rachel, but she was quick to go to her bedroom once Rachel was down for the night.

Two weeks later, I had to go to Seattle for a project review.

While I was there . . . I did something extraordinarily stupid.

I slept with a guy I met at the bar.

I’d been alone, taking care of a little girl for almost a year. I wanted some orgasms and some closeness.

And I got something that seemed to be those things.

For a moment.

(Yeah, I can be a complete idiot sometimes.)

I got back on a Friday. Alyssa picked me up at the airport.

On our way home, she told me that Grandma and Granpda had asserted their right to spoil the snot out of their granddaughter, and that Rachel was therefore up in Idaho Springs, probably eating stuff that was bad for her, staying up late, and generally getting away with murder.

Something in her tone made me ask, “Why am I getting the feeling you set this up?”

Alyssa smiled. “You got me. Yes, I suggested the idea, and they jumped on it. Because I need to talk with you. Alone.”

She prepared pan-seared herb-crusted salmon with buttered asparagus. It was delicious.

When we sat down in the living room, I noticed she’d set her sophomore yearbook out on the coffee table. She was quiet for a minute, then asked, “Gina . . . I love you.”

I smiled. “I love you too.”

Friends love each other on some level, right?

She was quiet, and I looked at her face.

She was looking at me that way.

Hope and fear lurched in my heart.

“Whoa. I thought you were strictly hetero?”

She chuckled. “I changed my mind.”

I shook my head. “You can’t change your mind that much.“

Alyssa smiled and picked up the yearbook, and opened it to a picture of the chess club.

“Find me in this picture without looking at the caption.”

I looked. “You’re not in it.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

She tapped the caption. There was her name—Alyssa Bontrager—and she was third row . . .

“Wait, that’s you?”

The girl in the picture was over two hundred fifty pounds. She was in shape, if you considered “beached whale” to be a shape. And she had four chins.

But what little I could see of her facial structure indicated it was Alyssa.

“Yup, that’s me. My shadow alone must’ve weighed 42 pounds.”

“How did you do that?”

“I changed my mind.” She smiled. “I hypnotized myself to change my lifestyle. If I could change my massive addiction to junk food and equally massive aversion to exercise, changing my sexual orientation is a piece of cake. Pleasure doesn’t know gender.”

I felt stirrings of arousal. I’d sometimes fantasized about being . . . dominated.

Not with physical restraints. Anyone can tie you up.

I wanted . . .to be completely owned by my lover. To be conquered. To surrender my body, mind, and soul to someone I loved. And I thus had a bit of an erotic hypnosis kink.

But it was all fantasy.

Alyssa was looking at me closely.

“Gina, my love, it seems I hit a nerve.”

I said, “Look, it’s just a silly fantasy. I’ve got a kink for that. But this is the real world, not the MC Stories site. You can’t hypnotize me—”

Alyssa’s hand came up.

I stopped talking.

She smiled. “You’re absolutely right, darling. I can’t hypnotize you. Remember, I said I hypnotized myself? All hypnosis is self-hypnosis. You have to be willing to let go. And that means trusting the person helping you to focus to not take advantage—which they can’t, no one can make you do anything you’d morally object to—and trusting that you know yourself well enough to not go any place dangerous for you. I can help you focus your mind so that you can go into trance, but you have to make that decision to let go.“

Somehow the conversation turned into an argument—not especially vigorous, but still an argument . . .

She took my right hand in her own hands, gently stroking the back of my hand, and my . . . feistiness . . . just kind of flowed out of me.

I giggled. “You really think you can hypnotize me?”

“What did I just spend ten minutes trying to explain to you, darling? I can’t possibly hypnotize you. Only you can. I can help you hypnotize yourself, if that’s what you want.“

I stared at Alyssa. Nameless desires floated in my mind.

Her tone grew soft and velvety. “Gina, if you want to hypnotize yourself, all you have to do is focus on my voice and let your body relax, feel my touch on your hand and breathe in, and hold it for a bit, and breathe out . . . ”

It was easy to follow her lead. I felt my breathing slow and tension come out of my neck and shoulders. This went on a for a few minutes, and my mind seemed to slow down in time with my breathing.

“ . . . let your eyes close naturally . . . ”

My eyes closed. I didn’t consciously close them, they just kind of closed themselves.

“. . . let your mind focus on my voice . . . ”

Alyssa’s voice dropped to a soft murmur, but my hearing seemed to have sharpened.

“ . . . and as your body relaxes your mind relaxes, the thoughts and pressures of the week just naturally draining out, just like a pool of water draining, the spiral taking you deeper . . . ”

I could see the spiral, and I could feel my thoughts flowing away with it.

Her voice caressed me like silk, and then bound me like soft leather restraints.

I craved the silk—and the restraints.

She guided me through images of relaxation, by turns lying on a warm tropical beach at sunset, then sitting by a babbling brook, and then watching a sparkling diamond . . .

I can’t say exactly when it happened, but at some point I was aware of only now.

Alyssa’s voice coaxed my eyes open, coaxed me off of the sofa, coaxed me up the stairs to her bedroom. We stopped in front of the door.

“Gina, if you want, you can stop this and all you’ll have is an experience of profound relaxation. Or you can allow me to give you . . . more. Pampering. A nice, relaxing bath, allowing me the privilege of bathing and massaging you.”

The thought of Alyssa caressing my bare skin made me inhale a little more sharply.

I managed to croak, “More.”

Her voice was in my ear. “I won’t disappoint you, darling. You can tell me to stop any time. You can come out of trance whenever you want. You know how.”

The door opened. Her bedroom was lit with candles, and a smooth mint aroma that seemed to sharpen the other sensations I felt filled the room.

She sat me at her vanity and ran the bath. I was content to stay there.

I could have come out of trance at any time.

If I’d wanted to.

But I didn’t.

Alyssa came back out in one of her robes, helped me undress, put my hair up, then led me into the bathroom.

The bath was at the perfect temperature, and Alyssa performed gentle, tender ablutions on me. She then helped me out of the tub and dried me off.

Well, most of me got dried off. One part didn’t.

She’d covered the bed with big, thick, fluffy towels, several layers deep. I seemed to float face down, on thick terrycloth, my face resting in a cradle, my mind comfortably empty, reveling in pleasurable physical sensations, and savoring the sheer timelessness of it all.

I heard her robe whisper to the floor, and then she straddled me.

I could tell she was naked. And aroused.

At first, her massage was therapeutic, loosening the knots in my back and releasing trigger points. The oil had a faint cherry scent that flowed with the mint from the candles.

Gradually, her touch became sensual. Her hands explored the skin of my back, feet, calves, thighs, buttocks.

A wordless purr came from my throat.

She gently rolled me onto my back.

And I saw Alyssa for the first time as a truly sexual being. She was . . . like a jungle cat, sleek muscle, yet perfectly feminine. Her breasts were somewhat smaller than mine, held up by her amazing muscle tone, ending in lomg, erect conical nipples that begged to be kissed, licked, and sucked. Her torso gleamed with the oil. Her mound was perfectly hairless, with a prominent clitoris at the top of her pussy. Her skin was lightly bronzed, without a tan line to be seen. Her green eyes seemed almost luminous in the candlelight, and her auburn hair reflected golden highlights.

The smell of my own arousal and Alyssa’s had filled the room.

She didn’t bother with a therapeutic massage; every touch was becoming intensely erotic. My juices were flowing as they never had for anyone, man or woman.

All I had to do was say “no,” or “stop,” or just choose to come out of trance.

And all I wanted to do was to submit to Alyssa.

To my true love.

To my conquerer.

To my owner.

Her hands glided over my skin, caressing my thighs, hips, stomach, breasts, shoulders, arms. She raised my right hand to her mouth and kissed the palm, then began kissing her way up to my shoulder, then across to the hollow of my neck, and up to my lips.

Our tongues danced together for a brief eternity, then she made her way down to my breasts, kissing, sucking, and licking all over.

To my belly, flicking her tongue in my navel.

And.

Then.

Her tongue surged into my pussy, and she began eating me out like a woman possessed, like a woman dying of thirst drinking from a spring. Her tongue was amazingly long and supple.

I’ve gotten off on cocks shorter than Alyssa’s tongue. Her tongue reached all the way back to my G-spot, even as she sucked on my clit.

She gave me my first-ever honest-to-God multiple orgasm.

She backed off for a bit, kissing around my groin, kissing the tender skin on my thighs, up to my pubic bone . . .

And then dove back in, and I had another, even more intense series of orgasms that seemed to flow throughout my entire body.

She moved back up my body and kissed me again, then lay on her side, caressing me gently.

I let myself come out of trance, step by step, gently—somehow, I knew the way back.

“Wow,” I said.

We lay there together in silence.

I finally rolled onto my side, facing her.

“How did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Make me come . . . I’ve never . . . " I giggled. “My toes were coming, for God’s sake!“

She smiled and kissed my nose.

“Gina, darling, this may sound like a non sequitir, but do you multi-task?”

“Sure. I mean, who doesn’t these days?”

She giggled. “Who doesn’t? Everybody. Nobody multi-tasks. It’s a trick question. And I didn’t make you come like that. You did.”

“Me?”

“Honey, you were having sex without the background noise of that deadline at work, or the grocery list, whether or not you’re going to paint the ceiling beige, or wondering what Rachel is up to. Pleasure and orgasms all happen in the brain, darling. If your brain is overstimulated—like most people’s are—that orgasm is going to be competing for neurons with everything else beyond keeping your lungs and heart going. All you did was turn off your background noise and focus on that pleasure, those orgasms.”

“So what did you do?”

Alyssa smiled. “I have to apologize for being so distant the past few weeks. I was spending an hour before bed in a trance, arousing myself to orgasm while thinking of you.”

“So you’re a lesbian, now?”

Alyssa laughed. “Um . . . not exactly.”

“Bisexual?”

“Not that, either.” She paused, then said, “I’m Regina Matthews-sexual now. I am pretty sure I couldn’t be with another woman, or with a man.”

I gasped.

“You aligned your sexual identity on me, specifically?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“What if this didn’t work? What if I said no?”

“Remember the first time we got drunk at the South Platte Brewhouse?”

“Not really.”

That was a bit of a white lie. I’d gotten spectacularly trashed; I did actually remember something. Specifically, the hangover the next morning, which had been of Biblical proportion.

“Well, you told me flat-out that if I were at all into girls, you’d just settle down with me.”

I groaned. “You never told me I told you that.”

“Didn’t want to embarrass you. And it wasn’t important until Rachel called me Mommy.” She sighed. “I want to be her mommy. And I want to be your wife.”

And suddenly, it was there.

I’d found her while she was helping me care for my niece.

And now she wanted the same thing I did.

“Yes.”

I rolled her onto her back and kissed her.

“Yes, Alyssa. I will take you as my wife.”

She said, “Then take me.”

And her expression changed, her face relaxed, her eyes were locked on mine . . .

Something prompted me to ask, “Alyssa, are you in trance?”

“Yes, darling . . . ”

My breath caught in my throat, and suddenly I realized that she wanted me as her lover . . . her conquerer . . .

. . . Her owner.

We belonged to each other.

I discovered so much about her that night.

Her facial expressions when she came.

That she could come just from having those delectable nipples sucked on and played with.

How her clit felt on my lips and my tongue.

How her legs felt as they clenched aginst my head as she came.

How her voice caressed me.

Eventually, we were in trance together, in a 69, in a shared orgasm that seemed to last for hours.

A month later, we were in Maui, celebrating our honeymoon while Rachel’s newest grandparents—Alyssa’s mom and dad—took care of her for us.

I’d missed my period a couple weeks earlier.

I’d been terrified to tell Alyssa, but I worked through it, wondering what Alyssa’s reaction would be.

Pure, unadulterated joy was the last one I’d expected, but it was what I got.

We’d gotten the marriage permit as soon as the circuit court had ruled in favor of same-sex marriage in the western US.

I came out of the bathroom from my shower to see Alyssa standing there, feeldoe jutting out in front of her.

I let myself go into trance and fell to my knees. I began to crawl, my ripe, full breasts swaying below my chest.

At her feet, I rose up to a kneeling position and took her cock in my mouth.

At UCD, she’d had a reputation among the guys as a blowjob queen. Me, not so much.

But I gave it a college try, and I actually managed to deep-throat her feeldoe until she pulled it out of my mouth and helped me up onto the bed. I stayed in trance, and assumed a doggie position, facing the mirrored closet door.

And watched Alyssa, my wife and lover, fuck me from behind like the slutty whore I was in that moment.

What has followed amounts to sharing an ordinary life with an extraordinary woman.

During my pregnancy, Alyssa tapered off from working as a personal trainer, dietician, and fitness coach, and began developing a brand, AlyssaFit4Life, working from home as an online influencer in areas of physical/emotional health, diet, and exercise. (I swear that 50% of her social media followers are lecherous guys who like watching her move around in a leotard. I applaud their excellent taste.) She’s now manged to get herself branded as “The Supermodel Next Door,” landed some endorsements and a lot of follows on Patreon and Substack, and all of this brings in decent money for next to no work while she is a full-time mommy. She’s appeared on various TV shows, and recently signed a book deal.

We eventually moved into a house in Black Forest, a northern suburb of the Springs, on five acres of wooded land. I designed an addition for an office area (for me) and a podcast/fitness studio (for Alyssa) and got it built out in 2019.

Just in time for the ’Rona. We stayed sane, we stayed solvent, we stayed safe. Our five acres has become our sanctuary from an increasingly crazy world.

Rachel is now eleven. Alyssa and had “the talk” (actually, a bunch of little talks) with her about puberty, love, sex, and babies starting in 2019, and I told Rachel that I had made a mistake that could’ve hurt a bunch of people, including her, and only the fact that Mommy loved me in spite of my being a little foolish and impulsive kept anything from going wrong.

My daughter Erin—named for Alyssa’s mother—was born eight months after our wedding. She is now six years old, and is a well-behaved little girl. Alyssa knows when to push the discipline—and when to back off.

In 2016, Alyssa decided to go all in and have a baby. We did intrauterine insemination—Alyssa was 25, and her fertility was good (and still is, as is mine). We got identical twins, Amanda and Tracy, named for my mother and my sister.

Me? I moved up through the ranks at Franklin & Carmody until I made partner earlier this year. My secret weapon was the ability to go into trance—something that Alyssa and I honed over the years. I’ve attended meetings in trance—sometimes, it’s the only way to get through them with your sanity intact, especially when it’s a Zoom pre-pre-meeting to set the agenda for the Zoom pre-meeting before the Zoom meeting. Trance lets me be focused AND relaxed when I need to be, it lets me get to sleep quickly—and oh, yeah, it makes our sex life absolutely amazing.

Alyssa and I are still madly in love. We go to and raise our daughters in an LGBT friendly Methodist church, and we’re like any happily married couple with kids. We may argue—we’re both pretty strong-willed people—but one of our secrets is to hold hands. (You can’t say anything really nasty while holding your partner’s hand. It’s like human beings have a cutoff switch in our fingers and palms.)

We are going to try to have one more pregnancy apiece before it gets too risky.

As for our sex life . . . we’ve given each other cues and triggers. Cues tell the us what we’re feeling and interested in; triggers let us suggest how to make the most of those.

Sorry, kids, no kinky threesomes, no hypnotizing the neighborhood wives into lesbian orgies, no deep, dark conspiracies by secret masters, nothing perverse.

Just me and a wonderful woman who changed my life . . . by changing her mind.