The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

This story is hereby placed in the public domain. Usual disclaimers.

Tags: mc, md, mf

Stunning

Chapter 1: A Supervillian is Born, and Pulls his first Super Caper

She was kind of nasty, I guess. Light bottle blonde, smelling of cigarettes—she had walked out to light up, just as I walked in—, chunky, looks to be in her 40’s but with that bad habit could be 30’s, and with a permanent happy-to-be-in-customer-service-all-my-life disposition. Well, I’ve always had a secret soft spot for this type. Something in me just wants to fuck losers, I guess, because doing it to them just proves I have power over them to do whatever I want.

The Mexican girl At the next station was a drop-dead hottie. She had great curves, large tits, and a pale, almost-caucasian complexion. Her hair tinted slightly red; why do Mexican women do that, anyway? It’s like the Mexican version of bottle blonde. She would have been the one cutting my hair, but loser came back from her break. Fuck.

So the Permanent Customer Servant is cutting my hair, after exchanging no more than perfunctory pleasantries and taking my order for the haircut (short on top, #3 on the sides and the back, hate the sideburns). I’m idly fantasizing about reaching back and grabbing her tit, wondering if she’d even say a word about it if I did that, thinking it’d probably be the best thing that happened to her all day. Then she nicks me with the razor, and although I’ve been nicked plenty of times, this is the first time the injury knocks me unconscious.

A splash of colored lights is all I see. When I come to, I find that nothing has changed, but in the big mirror in front of me, PCS’s reflection is standing behind me with the razor up, looking down at me. I blink at her, giving away no expression, thinking she’ll probably give me a hint whether I was noticably unconscious or not. She blinks back, then goes back to razoring. So that’s a no. Unconsciousness isn’t such a common thing that people just sort of ignore it and go about their business, so obviously she noticed something—maybe my head rolling back for a split second—but I wasn’t out long enough to need an ambulance.

What the goddamn hell happened? I’m asking myself. I look over at Mexican hottie’s reflection in the mirror in front of me. She looks back. Maybe she noticed something too. Then her hand drops limply to her side and she drops her scissors. Oh shit! Something’s wrong with me!, I think.

Panicked, I look up at PCS, but PCS hasn’t noticed anything; she’s looking down at the haircut she’s giving me. Mexican hottie bends over to pick up her scissors and goes back to work. Nothing.

Now I’m in a hurry to get the hell out, and I’m starting to get nervous. What are these people doing? Fortunately, the haircut’s done in record time and I’m up at the register. I get my card out of the wallet as she tells me, “Twelve dollars?” and smiles. She makes eye contact.

Suddenly it’s like she’s Mexican hottie’s twin sister on the day both of them were hypnotized by Magentar the Great at the county fair. She’s got the same dumb look, and although she was reaching for my card, her hands drop limply to her sides and she looks at me, slack-jawed.

I’m still holding out my card. I wait politely, then nervously, I joke, “What, I don’t have to pay?”

She blinks, considering this. “No,” she says.

What the fuckity fuck?

“For real? I don’t have to pay?”

“No.”

I consider trying to pay anyway, but there’s a reason I had my credit card out; I don’t like to pay cash for stuff when I don’t have to, and I can’t very well pay with my card if she won’t take it out of my hand and run it. “Well, okay,” I say. I slowly put the card back in my wallet, still watching her, expecting her to laugh and try to take the card this time.

She doesn’t.

I hurry up and get out of there, because now I know there’s something seriously wrong, and it’s not the normal “Oh, Sorry We Nicked You, Ten Percent Discount” kind of wrong. They were staring at me like my skull was cracked open.

At the first stop sign between SuperCuts and home, I pull down the mirror and check the nick, expecting to see blood gushing down my neck. Well, it’s a nick all right. A tiny spot of blood is visible above my ear. I look at the haircut. Looks fine, better than last time in fact. I pull into the next driveway I see, a Safeway parking lot, and in the parking spot I run my hands all over my head, thoroughly checking myself for damage, and try as best I can to see myself from every angle in the mirrors. And there’s nothing wrong. I shake my head, wondering if it was just the passing-out that both of them noticed and were so freaked about, wondering if maybe I’m about to have a stroke. But rattling my brain around doesn’t make me pass out again, so now I’m forced to conclude that there’s nothing wrong with me except my bank account has 12 bucks plus tip more than it should.

Good deal, I think.

* * *

At the door, I hear my neighbors talking as they walk up to their door, and I deliberately slow down. My neighbors are both women. The one, Isabel, is in her late thirties, and looks like she’s partied a bit, but she keeps herself trim and in top shape. And then there’s her daughter. Her daughter, whose name I don’t know, is even blonder than Isabel, if that’s possible, and she looks like she keeps herself in the kind of shape that gets women approached by porn directors. Tight little body, perfect round ass, all of 17 or maybe 18 years old. I’ve had many a fantasy about these two, and I take every opportunity I can to make chitchat so I can admire without seeming to.

They round the corner and look up at me. I can tell they’re going to keep talking and walking up to their door without acknowledging me, as they often do, but Isabel stops walking and her keys and her purse fall out of her hands.

Simultaneously, the daughter turns to her mom with a concerned look as I blurt out, “OK, why does everyone keep doing that?” Mom is looking right at me. She’s slack-jawed. Guess that family had triplets. Daughter turns back to me, and just sort of stares.

I know my expression is starting to show my fear, but I can’t help it now. “Really,” I say, trying to sound concerned. “Why are you staring at me? At SuperCuts, they . . . " I trail off. Isabel and daughter are still staring at me, but they’re not making the little eye movements and body language quirks that tell you someone is listening. They haven’t moved a muscle, except that they’re both visibly breathing. They look, if anything, relaxed.

Then Isabel speaks. “No reason.”

Oh, well never mind then. Nothing unsual about a woman throwing her things on the ground to stare at her neighbor, I guess.

“No reason?” Without understanding why, I feel a little less afraid. “Why’d you drop your stuff?”

“You surprised me.”

“Aren’t you going to get it?”

She considers this for, I think, far too long; several seconds. Then she says, “Yes.”

I address the daughter directly. “Is the nick on my ear bleeding or something?”

“No,” says the daughter. Isabel still hasn’t picked up her keys or purse. I move toward them, meaning to reach down to get them. They don’t react, even when I walk right up, bend over, and pick them up.

As I do so, I feel them stir, so I quickly hand them to Isabel, saying, with a wink, “You dropped these,” and hoping they’re not going to get weird about this. Isabel turns to look at me, and takes the items from my hands, but her hands drop back to her sides.

“Mom?” says the daughter, who’s now looking at Isabel. At least that’s a change. I look over at the daughter, and now she’s staring at me again.

Hmm.

I back away toward my door, still looking at them, thinking I should just go inside and leave them out here. They stare. Their stares follow me. I turn to unlock the door, and a second after I have it open, I hear, “Uh, thanks.” The women begin to walk toward the door,

and I hear Isabel whisper, “Sarah, what were we talking about again?” She sounds confused.

I step through and turn back to catch one more glimpse of daughter Sarah’s ass, and Sarah is looking at me, a puzzled look on her face. It’s quickly replaced with the slack-jawed look I’m starting to get used to.

“Isabel,” I say. To get her attention. I’m starting to get a hunch.

“Yes?” she says.

“Isabel, tell me why you both keep staring at me.”

“No reason, really.”

“Sarah?”

Sarah doesn’t respond, but she’s staring at me. “Sarah, did you notice your mom drop her stuff?”

“Yes.”

“Why did she do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why didn’t you pick it up?”

“No reason.”

“Sarah, why are you staring at me right now?”

Sarah shrugs. I decide to try another experiment.

“Isabel, do you dye your hair?”

“No.”

“Isabel, you look good in red. You should wear red more often.” Isabel is wearing a blue pants suit. She nods. I go inside.

* * *

That night, I take out the garbage, not because I have to but because I want to run into somebody else. I have checked myself out again, thoroughly, in the bathroom mirror, just to make sure there’s nothing visibly wrong with me that’s making everyone around me freak out; there’s nothing. I got out carrying my sunglasses. I put them on as I pass an elderly neighbor standing at the mailboxes. She looks up at me, looks at the sunglasses, then looks back to sorting through her mail.

A young white guy pulls up in his pickup truck to hop out and get his mail. I nonchalantly take off the sunglasses as I toss the trash into the bin, then look over at him, making eye contact.

Sure enough, he stops halfway out of his truck cab, and stares at me. I notice he’s also wearing sunglasses. Ah. So that doesn’t matter. I put my own sunglasses back on. He gets out of his truck and walks up to the mailboxes.

I walk back home, wondering if this is how Batman felt the first time he discovered he could... well, whatever the hell it is Batman’s superpower is. Bad example. Ok, the first time Cyclops discovered he could laserbeam shit with his eyes. Yeah. This fills me with so much glee that as soon as I have my apartment door shut at my back I start giggling uncontrollably.

* * *

I almost go next door that night. I wonder about the credit card. I wonder about wearing red. I wonder about people who answer any question put to them like robots.

I wonder if I can use this to get laid.

* * *

The next morning, I’m up bright and early; 5 am, in fact. This is because there’s a window in my apartment that looks out on the front walk. Last night I moved my computer over to it so I could have something to do while I wait. Wait and watch. I’m up early because I have no idea what time Isabel gets up.

It’s Sunday, so I suspect I’m gonna have a long wait for her to get up (never mind go outside), but I can’t afford to miss this. My next step depends on it; it’s absolutely vital. Not that there’s a plan, exactly. But there’s an urgency. I want to know what happened to me,

but mostly I want to know whether the effect (which I’ve started to think of as Stunning, capital S) is actually useful or I’m just going to have to wear shades the rest of my life.

6 am and 7 am roll around, and I take a chance and go make myself some toaster waffles. As I do this I leave the window cracked open; I can get back to it pretty damn fast if I hear Isabel. I don’t, though, and by 8 am the waffles and the half-canteloupe that followed them are eaten and discarded and I’m playing some free game I downloaded off the net because my sleep-deprived brain is too tired to get any work done. I didn’t catch many Z’s last night; it felt like being 7 years old on Christmas Eve.

At 8:45 AM I abruptly hear the neighbors’ door open. I can’t see their door from the window, but I can see the walkway, enough of it to confirm or debunk. And there she is. Blonde hair neatly put up, no Sarah in sight. And there’s my confirmation, about as obvious a confirmation as I could possibly hope for. I was thinking, maybe a red neckerchief or red shoes or something. If I’m lucky, both.

Nope. Our Isabel has decided to wear red from head to toe this morning. Red pumps, red lipstick, red earrings, red hose or stockings showing her lovely firm legs and yes, get this... a red dress with white polka dots. I grin, thinking, Well, she obviously doesn’t own a red hair bow.

When her car pulls away, I almost go next door. Almost. Instead, I go back to bed, and catch up on sleep.

* * *

I don’t wake up until just after noon. I go for a walk around the complex, wearing my shades. I do this to look for Isabel’s car, which is indeed back in its spot. I also do this to make sure the Stunning effect hasn’t worn off. I walk past a few people. Some of them see my shades; they keep walking. Some of them I let see my eyes; they stop,

and stare, and practically drool.

One of the latter is a a nice large-breasted brunette in her 20’s, walking her cocker spaniel. She’s drsesed in clean gray sweat pants and a white tee shirt, but she can’t have been exercising too hard because she’s not sweating. Nobody else is around, so while she’s Stunned, I ask her, “What’s your name?”

“Audrey,” she says, stare stare stare. The dog looks up at her, back at me, then it walks over to pee on a tree next to us.

“Audrey, do you have any cash on you?”

“Yes.”

“What’s the largest bill?”

Audrey doesn’t know. The small tan dog is sitting by her again, panting and looking, I can’t help noticing, more alert and intelligent than his mistress.

“Audrey, take out your wallet, and look at the bills.” As I say this,

it occurs to me that Audrey can’t be carrying a wallet, because she doesn’t have a purse (or, for that matter, pockets).

She confirms this by saying, “Wallet?”

I say, “Take out your cash.” Audrey floors me by reaching into the cleavage of her sports bra and taking out several bills. Okay.

“Audrey, look at the bills and tell me what the largest bill is.”

Audrey’s eyes flick to the bills for a split second then back at me, as if she can’t bear to take her eyes off me. “A twenty,” she responds.

“Audrey, drop a twenty on the ground.”

She does this. I have her put the money back into her, uh, pocket. When she does, I put my shades back on, and adopt a bland smile. Audrey smiles at me and starts to walk off.

“Miss?” I address her. She turns around. “Did you drop this money?” She smiles and shakes her head, then keeps walking. Oh, this is gonna fucking kick ass. I pick up the twenty, wondering whether I should follow Audrey home. Hell yes I should.

* * *

I knock. The shades are off. I’m smiling, because I just can’t help it.

“Yes?” says Audrey.

“Is there anyone else here?” No. “Are you expecting any company?” No. “Do you remember dropping twenty dollars on the ground a few minutes ago?” No. “Do you remember talking to me at all?” Yes. “Do you remember telling me your name?” No.

Time to move in for the kill.

“Can I feel your tits?”

She considers this for a moment, then nods. Well, to hell with copping a feel.

“I’m going to come in.” She doesn’t react, so I step through the door, still maintaining eye contact. Still no reaction, so I close the door. I see an old brown couch and a kitchen table inside the apartment, and decide on the couch.

“Go over to the couch and take off your top, show me your tits.”

Audrey walks over to the couch. She has to face away from me to do this, so as she walks, she keeps flicking glances at me over her shoulder, again, as if she can’t bear to take her eyes off me. The cocker spaniel has walked into the room and is eating from his bowl. She almost trips over him as she walks to the couch, but even when she stumbles, she never looks down at the dog (which whines at her), and she keeps looking back at me.

When she gets to the couch, she sits down, and in one movement pulls off both her t-shirt and the sports bra underneath it. Her D-cup tits fall out and rest on her chest, nipples pointing demurely forward. The bills she had stuck between them fall out onto the floor, but she appears not to notice. I instantly start to harden, and I know I’m going to be hard as a rock before I sit down next to her, which I do. She watches me do this without taking her eyes off me once, or adopting an expression on her face of any sort.

Now the tricky part. I need to find out just how much I can get away with. I’ve already established that they obey suggestions, and that they basically don’t remember things that happen while Stunned. But they can’t really do much on their own, and they always have to be looking at me.

That’s going to make doggy-style sex tricky. But maybe there’s a solution.

The trick, I start to think, is the suggestion. What kind of suggestions will work? My suggestion to Isabel to wear red had her wearing it from head to toe, even including bright red lipstick. Obviously there’s a certain amount of power. OK, time to test.

I start by having Audrey put her top back on and make herself look normal, which she does with the same Stunned face she’s worn since the door opened. I walk over to the door, open it, and stand outside, having Audrey follow me but stay on the inside.

“Audrey, my name is Jack. You met me outside, and asked me to come up. You’re expecting me to arrive. Do you understand?”

She looks confused. She nods.

“You wanted to meet me.” Nod. “You think I’m attractive.” Nod.

I close the door and put the shades on. Almost immediately I hear her walking away from the door on the inside.

I knock. Hurried footsteps. Audrey, an excited smile on her face, opens the door and says “Hi Jack! Come in.”

“You want some coffee?” she asks. She is making herself some. I take off the shades before answering, “No thanks, don’t drink any.” She looks up to smile at me, not knowing what’s going to hit her.

“Audrey, you’re going to give me oral sex,” I say. “You want to suck my dick. You can’t wait to taste my semen.” Nod. “Forget the coffee. Just seduce me, take my pants off, and blow me.” I ponder for a moment, then add, “On that couch over there.”

I put the shades back on. Audrey leaves the coffee pot in the sink, the water still running. “You didn’t come over here for coffee, did you, " she says, a new expression on her face.

“Uh, no, I didn’t,” I say.

She walks across the room. I can’t help noticing that my suggestion that she forget the coffee has been taken quite literally; she has forgotten that she was even making coffee, because she leaves the water running as she crosses the room. I decide not to mention it.

Audrey wraps her arms around her shoulders, a langorous, sultry smile on her face. She leans in and whispers to me, “Go sit on the couch.”

I decide to act the innocent. “I’m sorry?”

“Go sit on the couch,” she says, and her tongue suddenly finds my earlobe.

“Jesus.” I put my hands on her ass, squeeze. I walk over to the couch, turn around, put on my best “Are You Sure?” face, and look back at her. She nods. I sit down.

She crosses the room, hips swaying slowly, taking her time. She notices me looking at her tits, and says, “Want to see them?”

“Oh, yes.”

She takes another step toward me then rips off her tee. The sports bra underneath shows her lovely cleavage, but of course, I’ve already had the full show so I’m not impressed. I arch an eyebrow at her, and she pouts and then rips off the bra too, cupping her tits in her hands.

“Nice,” I say, unnecessarily.

She continues to cup them as she walks up to me, leans over the couch so her beautiful orbs are right in my face, then slithers down onto her knees, making sure to brush my lap with her melons.

I can’t wait any more. I reach to unzip my pants, but she stops me with her hands, and starts to rub my thighs slowly. No really, I can’t wait any more, chickie. I take off the shades, and the teasing stops immediately.

“Go faster. I want to cum in your mouth in the next 4 minutes.”

I put them back on. Audrey is in a race now. She grabs my belt, keeps fumbling with it for a minute until I just undo it myself, unzip my zipper,

and push my pants off, underwear included.

Audrey dives to it and stuffs the head (fully erect) into her mouth. She looks up at me questioningly, and I nod.

She goes to town. I’ve had better blowjobs, but I’ve never had more energetic ones. She gags herself a couple of times because she’s sucking so hard and so fast, and I’m pretty much just pushing myself into her. She looks up at me frequently, but never slows down, and I can tell this isn’t feeling good for her as I hit her tonsils repeatedly. But her feeling good isn’t exactly the point, is it?

Without taking my shades off, I say, “Yeah, yeah, slobber, use spit, yeah,” and she does, slobbering on my cock and making this blowjob as messy as she can. Suddenly, I go off, and I grab her hair. She flinches at this, but I’m coming, and I don’t care. As I finish shooting my main load into her throat, I take a second to push the shades up. She stares, but doesn’t take my cock out of her mouth.

I finish pumping the last of my jism onto her tongue, then wipe the last dribbles off on her cheek as I pull out. Stare. I put my pants back on. Stare. “Swallow,” I say. She swallows.

* * *

“Put your top back on, but be careful to leave the cum on your face.” She obeys, and manages to get both bra and tee back on without dislodging the string of jizz I left on her cheek. I walk to the door, and say, “Audrey, you don’t remember meeting me, you don’t remember inviting me in, you don’t remember sucking my cock, you don’t remember anything. You won’t remember ever having seen me, if you ever see me again.” Nod.

I notice the money on the floor. Ah, fuck it. In for a penny . . . I walk over and scoop it up. Twenty-five more bucks Audrey has donated to me. I guess that makes me her gigolo.

I go out, and shut the door behind me. I slide the shades down over my eyes, then wait, counting 60 seconds carefully. I can still hear the water running in the sink through the door, but before my count is over the water is turned off. I turn around and knock on the door.

This time there’s a longer wait than last time for Audrey to answer. When she does so, she looks puzzled, and I suddenly realize I need to think of something to say. The first thing that comes to mind: “Oh, sorry, I thought this was my friend’s apartment.”

An expression of understanding crosses her face. I notice a string of semen, still on her cheek. “Who’s your friend?”

Whoops. “Uh, John is his name.”

“Oh sorry, I don’t know any Johns, but it might be that door,” she says, pointing. “I don’t know them.”

I say, “Thanks!” and turn to go. She shuts the door.

Thanks, Audrey.