The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It was a bit of a busy night for Nicole. Her husband, Trent, had needed her support, as he did from time to time— and Nicole loved him. She was always only too happy to do what she could in order to help him out.

The support he needed this time— the support he needed most times— was a welcoming environment which he could invite colleagues and contacts into in order to grow his business. He ran his own business, after all, and that entailed a fair degree of risk— and it was a software business— he employed a fair amount of developers, and he tried to make equivalent programs that could provide decent competition for ensconced, existing programs.

It was a bit of a philosophical project for him. Trent didn’t believe in monopolies— was quite opposed to them, and wanted to be a competitor, wanted to encourage others who might have thought, before seeing his business, that some things were just too big to compete with.

His developers were competent— the software he sold really did work— but he got farther on the basis of his sales team— he employed some very good sales people, which enabled him to keep his eye on big picture things— to keep running the company.

And his salespeople did good business— but they got farther on the basis of the parties and events that Nicole was constantly helping to organize. She would set the scene, and with it as their backdrop, they sold.

The backdrop was sometimes the backdrop of a largescale gala. Other times, small, it was a small intimate affair like tonight. There was a particularly lucrative client that Trent’s company was courting right now— they’d met multiple times, between their two offices— sometimes meeting on the client’s hometurf, sometimes meeting on Trent’s, but Trent knew as well as Nicole— maybe believed it more than Nicole— that when people had had a nice night of pleasant company, when they had eaten a good dinner and drunk good wine— they were more magnanimous, in a better mood, and in a better mood might, out of a sense of camaraderie, be willing to give things a shot and open a contract.

It had worked with stubborn clients before. So when Trent had asked for a dinner party, Nicole had agreed, even though they were always a lot of work for her, and she rarely had any help with them.

She’d gotten all new table linens in pleasing complimentary colours— a midnight blue tablecloth of luxuriant material, with silver tablerunners to accent it— she’d brought out her good candlesticks, used the china— the blue designs on which popped against the tablecloth— and she had chosen some classy smooth jazz to play over the soundsystem in the dining room.

They had just finished their appetizer course, and it was time to take the roast out of the oven. Nicole excused herself from the table, and stepped into the kitchen, stepping around the central kitchen island. She tied the apron around her chic black dress, and opened it— taking the roasting pan out. The meat thermometer showed her an appropriate internal temperature.

She waited a few minutes for the beef to rest— meanwhile she dished up sides— potatoes, green beans, salads, rolls— then started slicing up the roast once it had rested enough— she added the pandrippings to her gravybase, stirring it a little more until it fully mixed in.

She served the sliced roast on each plate, and then drizzled gravy over each serving of meat.

She was a generous cook, and each serving was more than generous— after eating, each guest at the table tonight would be sated, perhaps even sated in that sleepyhappy way that fullness could make into a result.

And there were several guests to please: her husband, yes, but he’d brought a contingent of two of his best salespeople with him— Tamara and Josh; and a contingent from the client they were courting— two middleaged women in dinnerdresses, and an older man in a nice gray suit. She had six plates to take in, and then the plate for herself.

Years ago, she had been a waitress. Her body had never forgotten those habits— she was able to get three plates balanced on each arm, and she moved back into the dining room, where everyone was still chatting happily.

She slid the first plate in front of one of the women from the client’s contingent— served the three of them first, and then served her husband.

She served the other two plates, and was re-entering the dining room carrying her own, when she heard the front door open.

She looked at Trent with a furrowed brow, but he didn’t seem surprised at this development.

She retook her seat and watched— footsteps in the front-hall, and then a man appeared in the doorway to the diningroom.

She didn’t recognize him— she’d never met him before— he might have been one more for the client contingent, or one more for her husband’s, but she had no clue either way, and the hostess in her was beginning to panic in her head. She’d set the table for seven, she’d taken the eighth dining room chair out of here— and she didn’t have an eighth plate. Who was this? Why had he only decided to show up now, partway through dinner?

“Brad,” Trent said, in magnanimous greeting. “I’m glad to see you were able to get away after all.”

The man smiled in response. “The meeting with our other client wrapped up early— I thought it might. I thought I could get her to agree to come on board with us and do business— I thought she was close. And she was.”

So another one of her husband’s salespeople, then.

She had never yet managed to put her plate on the table, or sit down, so she could react quickly and smooth things over— erasing the obviousness of her lacking preparation.

“Glad you could make it, Brad,” she said. She set the plate she’d been holding down pointedly. “This place setting is for you. Please enjoy your meal.”

Brad’s eyes settled on her for a second, but he didn’t otherwise react.

Nicole moved back into the kitchen, and started serving an eighth plate for herself. Once it was served up, she left it on the island, and went out into the sittingroom across the way, where she’d stashed the eighth chair.

She tried to be as unobtrusive as possible as she carried it through the open arch into the diningroom and placed it at the foot of the table— so far from her husband, who was at the head— but better than eating in the kitchen.

The conversation was carrying on pleasantly, so she hadn’t disrupted too much. She headed back into the kitchen to get her plate.

Finally, she got back to her chair, finally sat down, and began eating. She tried to hide her sigh of relief. Hostessing was hard, rearranging, dealing with every unexpected detail that sprung up— it was hard.

She found herself watching Brad— even sitting, based on where his head and shoulders sat in relation to the others he was sitting near, she’d peg his height at five feet eight inches— but he looked young, despite his imposing stature; early twenties— maybe around twenty-two or twenty-three, if she had to put a year on it. His eyes were a steely gray— and his entire body was muscular. He clearly exercised often.

His hair was short, and black— practical, impressive, like the rest of him.

Nicole paid a bit more attention to the conversation, now that she’d re-entered it.

“So, Brad Krueger—” the man with the client’s contingent said. “How long have you been working with Trent?”

Brad swallowed the bite that had been in his mouth. Had Nicole been watching him chew a bit too closely?

“Only about a month,” Brad said, resting fork and knife momentarily on his plate— his hands were resting on his legs, now, his elbows slightly angled out. “I only just graduated from business school, but I was first in my class there— I was happy to get the junior salesman position at his company.”

Trent reached over to slap Brad on the back. “Already one of our best. I’m glad he could make it tonight so you could all have the chance to meet him.”

Nicole knew her husband well enough to understand what he had not said— Brad was possibly the best— and so, with him here, it was all but guaranteed they’d sign the client tonight— each one of the contingent had been put into the best possible mood, and now they would face Trent’s best salesman— doing business together was now, essentially a done deal.

Nicole was a little intrigued— at the thought of any salesman being so good that just his appearance meant that business had become a sure thing.

“But we don’t have to talk business right now,” Brad dismissed cheerfully. He took his utensils back up. “Have any of you been keeping up with baseball lately?”

One of the women from the client’s side apparently had, so this topic of conversation was adopted. Brad seemed quite knowledgeable on all things baseball; he followed all the teams, knew all the stats, had his favorite players, had his favorite teams, but even the teams he didn’t necessarily route for were of interest to him; he still paid attention to them for their strategy, for their skill. He seemed like someone who truly loved the game; he also confessed to playing in an amateur league, just for fun. So those muscles of his got put to one good use at least.

Nicole flushed, even though no one had heard her think that. Where did thoughts like that come from? She usually didn’t think about other men in that way.

Even though only Brad and the one woman knew about baseball, everyone else was listening to Brad, rapt, as if he was saying the most incredible things they’d ever heard. Some people could be charismatic like that; and Brad seemed to have that exact kind of charisma, the kind that kept people hanging on every word, no matter what he was saying.

But he didn’t seem to let it go to his head. He kept his friendly, affable affect. He seemed to be paying as much attention as Nicole to the question of ‘was everyone enjoying this interaction as much as possible?’

When the attention span of the entire table seemed at the point of breaking, even with Brad’s engrossing charisma, Brad deftly shifted topics; then he was telling an amusing anecdote about going out drinking— clearly he did this almost as often as he played baseball, because now there was a whole string of stories about crazy things that had happened to Brad and friends while they’d been enjoying drinks. And Brad managed to make each story charmingly self-deprecating, setting everyone at ease. Though he was dominating the conversation for now, he clearly didn’t think he was superior to everyone else, the self-deprecation made that clear.

Then Brad shifted the topic to poker— and this topic seemed the perfect one, because almost everyone at the table, except for Nicole, but by this point she hadn’t been saying much anyway— everyone at the table was a player, and they all had past glories to brag of, shameful failures to haltingly confess, and personal strategies to compare. Everyone was talking up, the table was raucous with conversation, and dinner was finished, and dessert gotten through, and the plates cleared, and the coffee or the tea drank— all without the topic of conversation shifting again.

At last a lull in the conversation came; and Nicole recognized the focused look in Trent’s eye. Now was the time to do business; so she carefully excused herself. Not that her presence would be missed at this point; she’d said almost nothing throughout the poker conversation.

But still, she’d made her polite exit, and now in the front hallway, she moved towards the thirddoor down.

Opening it, she had reached their private library; a cozy room with rich, chestnutbrown woodshelving on every wall, each instance of that shelving covered in books— and a modest electric fireplace which had been left running.

She sighed in relief. This was always a peaceful room to be in— and the stress of hostessing had caught up to her. Nicole was glad to have escaped; she moved to stand in front of the fireplace, holding her hands out towards it, savoring the warmth all the same, though it was generated electrically— savoring the warmth as much as she would have done had she stood in front of a true fireplace.

The door creaked and she turned to look over her shoulder.

She had no idea what to do with the information that her eyes took in.

Brad. It was Brad. He had followed her into the library, he was now pulling the door closed, and now he was walking to stand beside her.

Now he stood beside her.

She looked back to the flames, made more of a show of extending her arms, and turning her hands over.

Brad didn’t seem in any rush to speak— and all of this was too strange— he was holding his hands out just as she was doing— to feel the synthetic heat, to bask in it— and still he stayed silent.

She looked at his hands where they were outstretched towards the flames. Something had changed there— she remembered seeing Brad’s hands throughout the dinnertime conversation; he’d gesticulated freely with them, he was a gesturing speaker— so she’d had an unobstructed view of them. And they had been an unadorned set of hands.

They were not now. On the pinky finger of Brad’s right hand, he was now wearing a ring. During the walk from the diningroom to the library, he had put it on— Nicole was sure of that. But why would he put on a ring only to have it seen by her? Why not wear it at dinner, and show it off to everyone?

Nicole’s eyes lingered on that ring, as Brad’s hands reached for the heat. It fit perfectly where it sat, adding a bulk, a weight to visual image of his hand.

And at this angle, she had a pretty vantagepoint from which to consider it— Brad’s hands, extending outwards, were practically offering it up to her eyes.

It was a ring unlike any other Nicole had ever seen before. The ringband looked like it was made out of obsidian— and the metal twisted around it to surround its central stone was also a black metal— the stone was the only fleck of color— a deep, captivating red— but when the firelight caught it, it seemed to show other colors hidden within itself.

Nicole found herself starting at it— there was something behind her heart that pulled, something that made her want to— something— the impulse was unclear. She almost reached for it— she checked that impulse, checked, too, the impulse towards stepping closer. She found she was afraid to touch the ring and she didn’t understand why.

Brad gave no sign he’d even noticed Nicole looking at his ring. He just stayed where he was, hands angled toward the fire.

She looked him over more globally. He looked… good… in the deepblue suit he was wearing.

Nicole jerked her mind back on track. “I thought you were the one who closes the deal.” If he wasn’t going to make any reference to that ring, then neither was she.

“You thought right.” She heard a smile in his voice but didn’t look at him.

“How good and perceptive of you. But the explanation to your hinted question is contained in the hint. I close the deal. While there’s still concerns to be listened to, and details to be combed through, hesitations to explore— I’m best off waiting outside the room. I’ll go back when they’re almost ready to say they want to go home for the night— then I’ll make the deal happen just then. It works every time.”

Nicole frowned at the fire. “But why come wait with me? Why follow after me?” She did not ask, why bother putting on a ring only for me to see, but she was wondering that silently, too.

“Because you seemed like the most interesting way to pass the time. You’re not the only person who can read people, you know— let’s see.”

He dropped his hands and turned aside to look at her, dropping the ring out of her periphery. It felt uncomfortable to continue staring ahead while he was focusing on her, so she turned back, and looked up at him.

She felt confident in her estimate of his height— because she knew that she was five two, and she felt the six inches difference between them acutely.

She wrapped her arms around her body, as he clasped his arms behind his back and looked down at her.

“You’re about… forty-two. And you’re in good shape for forty-two, with a curvy body like yours— those large, delectable breasts— that swollen, inflated ass.”

Nicole felt her face burn. She didn’t like any man to notice her body except her husband— and Brad was practically coming onto her, speaking so crudely.

“You keep your blonde hair in that short bob because it’s easier to handle than longer hair would be— just a few quick pulls of a comb, and it looks gorgeous— I really do like the style on you— and I like your blue eyes.”

She looked into his eyes of steely gray. Why wasn’t she shutting him up? Pushing him away?

“And I love your black dress. You can really pull off a sweetheart neckline— you have the tits to pull it off.”

He ghosted his hand in front of her chest but didn’t touch her. She inhaled in a quick pull, and didn’t fully understand that.

“Seeing your shoulders bare— that’s pleasing, too— tempting— all that flushed, soft skin— just waiting for a hand to touch down on it—”

He was ghosting his hand over her collarbone— but not touching— a half-inch from touching— something twisted in her stomach and she felt that pulling again— pulling from her gut now, too, not just from behind her heart. She could feel the distance in the air between his hand and her skin— and— what it would be like for him to close it, to settle touch on her— she… almost wanted to know…

She shook her head, not caring if he could see. Thoughts like that needed to be shaken out. She did not want men who were not her husband to touch her.

Brad smirked.

“And just looking at you— the way you’re almost trembling— I can see your lifestory. Nicole Hart, you’ve been Trent’s good little housewife all these years. You popped out a son for him nineteen years ago— you raised him up— and your son moved out. Did Trent ever really notice you once in the past nineteen years, instead of just taking you for granted?”

Nicole’s mouth worked, in some kind of outrage— or maybe something else— but she couldn’t make any words sound out.

“Actually, your entire stance answers that question. If Trent ever had paid proper attention to you, he might have been able to stop things from getting to the point they’re at, right?”

Nicole was still flushing. But she couldn’t seem to make her mouth tell him to shut up and leave. It was overwhelming to be the target of his charisma, his charm— she had been rapt before when he’d only discussed baseball— but now that he was talking… doing whatever this was— it all seemed so much more nefarious, and that still didn’t liberate her from his captivating attention.

And there was still that darker burning— that half-wishing for him to touch her which she couldn’t understand, and which she certainly hadn’t been feeling before he came into this room.

He stopped ghosting hands over her that never touched. His hands were clasped behind his back again. Her own arms were loose at her sides.

“Where things are now, Nicole, is you’re bored. Your husband wasn’t attentive enough, he didn’t prevent your marriage from descending into a rut. And now you’re bored, and sick of the same old routine— unsatisfied— in your life as a whole, yes, but I feel quite confident saying this— it’s been years since he’s satisfied you in bed, too.”

Nicole stiffened. She looked him in the face.

He smiled a smile that made her feel like she was losing her understanding of who she was.

“I’m right,” Brad said. “I can see that. And no amount of that gardening you do, no amount of your reading, no amount of your tv watching— none of those things done in any quantity can change that. You’re bored and dissatisfied, inside your marital bed and outside of it.”

Nicole finally remembered how to make herself speak.

“Is that why you came in here? Do you think you will be the one to satisfy me? Is that why you put on that weird ring? You were trying to shine yourself up and make yourself seem more appealing?”

Brad’s eyes flashed— for a second, she thought it had been a trick of the light. But that look of illuminated clarity stayed longer than that second— stayed behind after the flash, like the afterimage in a photonegative, a movement already made and hanging behind, ghostly, on film— that look stayed, and she knew the flash in his eyes had really happened.

“You noticed my ring,” and his voice was congratulatory in way that she wanted, really, truly wanted to feel uncomfortable about but— didn’t quite.

“Yes, it’s showy, eyecatching— ridiculous. It doesn’t make you into some appealing object of beauty impossible to resist or avoid. It’s just— a ring.” She tried to inject disdain into her voice.

“It’s more than just a ring, Nicole.” He drew his hand back out from behind his back, held his closed fist up to her, so she could see the ring sitting there, close to his pinky-knuckle. “It’s an aid for me. I have a particular penchant for seducing married women, you see. And I’m so good at selling— selling is just like seducing, really— I’d be able to do it without any aids at all. But I sell all day when I’m at my job. It’s nice let something else take up the slack for me. Nice to have something else seduce for me— and then have the spoils all fall into my lap.”

She did not want to think of Brad’s lap— of being anywhere near it— of what would happen then—

“You may have seduced other married women before,” she allowed. “But you won’t be seducing me. I’m faithful to my husband. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t see me, doesn’t matter how unsatisfied I am. I love him. And that’s just a ring, whatever you say. Rings can’t have abilities. That’s not real life.”

Brad only kept smiling at her, holding his fist up, a twinkling in his eyes.

He was trying to make the ring sound like something mystical— he’d spoken of it like it was an agent in the world that could take actions, get results.

Nicole frowned at Brad, looking him over. He didn’t look any different. He was only imagining that that ring could do anything. Or he was just trying to trick her— invoke some kind of placebo effect. He was the same man as before, standing in front of her— a bit towering and intimidating because of the six feet he had over her— with those alluring steely eyes— that natural charisma that drew one in as with a magnet— that charm, that affability— he was the same man she expected him to be, based on what she’d learned of him tonight.

The attraction she felt to him wasn’t something mystical at all. He was young and attractive— and he’d described her life to her, and what he’d said was true— she was dissatisfied in her marriage, was bored— so a man who was young and attractive was bound to cause some kind of response in her. She’d had responses to him— a thought here, a sway nearer to him there. But that was the end of it, and there wasn’t any mystery to it— this ring was just a trick, it was a joke, it wouldn’t make her feel anything, there wouldn’t be anything else.

She looked at it. She looked at him— he looked the same— she looked at the ring. She frowned again; she’d been doing that a lot in here. Nothing had happened the way it should have; everything had been so out of the ordinary, and so inappropriate.

Just for fun, she could imagine some ability for the ring— an ability it could never carry out— but for some reason the idea seemed fun, it had come into her head from who knew where, but anything that was a fun diversion was worth spending a minute with.

From what he had said— the ring might do something like this; in a world where it had any ability at all— it might be like a draw— something always pulling, maybe unnoticed at first, but still there; like waves to a shore that could not be conscious of what moved against it— but still there, making its mark— maybe it would be like just that kind of lapping, just that kind of slow surging.

Or maybe it would be like a battery leaking charge— and not an old battery, but a fresh one, with a long, long battery life— maybe a battery that could hold charge for seven days or more. But still— eventually the battery would go down one percentage. And when one percentage was all that was lost, maybe it wouldn’t matter so much— but when enough of those points all added up— eventually the charge on the battery would be down to even as low as fifteen, or even ten percent.

And then what if the battery died completely— and what if it was never allowed to recharge after that, it would just stay dead…

There was a deeper thought behind that one. Nicole let herself play make-believe for a minute.

Imagining the ring were only mystical— because it couldn’t truly be, of course— imagining the ring were only mystical, and then what would it feel like to be seduced by it? Would that ring-inspired desired feel warm like the heat off the electric fireplace? Would it feel like something else? A settled softness, a settled simmer deep, low inside her, making her want to twist and wrench— and then if she gave into it—

She shook her head. All of it was ridiculous. It was just a normal ring. Brad was playing tricks on her— and he wasn’t even playing good tricks, the kind that could fool her.

“No,” she said. “Your ring doesn’t do anything, and it certainly can’t seduce me.”

Brad smiled, unconcerned. He dropped his hand. “It was lovely to meet you, Nicole,” he said, as if he hadn’t been one half of the strangest interaction Nicole had ever experienced in her life. “I’m sure I’ll see you again.”

Then he was walking away from her, opening the door, and disappearing out through it. He would go and close that deal now, probably.

Nicole shook her head. She was just glad that he was gone.

She didn’t feel much like standing in front of the fireplace anymore. She was feeling a little too hot. Instead, she sat down on the loveseat, and watched the flames.

It had been… a little thrilling… to imagine those impossible scenarios. Being the shore that waves lapped on— being the battery that lost its charge and never recharged again— actually being seduced— but thinking of what she’d imagined didn’t have any effect on her now. Even when she imagined exactly the same thing she’d imagined a few moments before— there was nothing in it for her— no illicit thrill, no whisper that seemed to suggest the way these things would really feel if they happened.

Those questions didn’t affect her— but they had left something behind in her body. She felt warmed from the inside by something more than flame, something more potent than electric heat. She hadn’t much had the mood lately in recent days and months— but there was a pull of focus to the space between her legs— yes— she wanted to touch there— her body was singing out to her, trying to call her in to do it— she would slip her hand beneath her skirt and touch at herself there— stroke, and circle and rub— and she would feel her wetness, she would glide in her touch— oh how she wanted to selfpleasure— and where had that feeling come from? Where had that thought? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d masturbated, why should she want to now?

She shook her head. She wouldn’t do it. She kept her hands balled up and resting on the couch beside her.

It wasn’t difficult, actually, to hold back from that impulse. But it did take a constant conscious exertion of will— she felt almost that if she stopped directly choosing to not do it, her hand might slip— and she might start to do it semi-consciously— she suddenly wondered if lying in bed asleep tonight, the impulse would still hold her— and sleeping, unbeknownst to her, her hand would slip back and do what she was preventing it from doing now— plundering what it wanted to plunder, encouraging the pleasure it wanted to encourage…

Nicole shook her head. She wasn’t touching herself. She wouldn’t.

But it was a little strange, how much she wanted to.