The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Panic!

For an infinitely long moment, I stood unmoving. My lips planted on my daughter’s with my tongue entangling her’s, and my left hand encircling her breast. Meanwhile, my eyes were locked onto my wife, Marsha, who was staring back at me, mouth agape.

Seconds ago, she had walked into the family room and caught my daughter and me in the midst of a passionate embrace.

Chani, my daughter, had not yet registered Marsha’s startled exclamation of, “What the fuck?” And, as such, she continued kissing and groping me.

So, like I said... Panic.

You ever watch a movie and see the protagonist acting all weak-willed or just plain stupid in an intense moment? Then, you think to yourself, “What an idiot. That wouldn’t bother me. I’d handle that situation, no problem.”

Yeah, me too. But, I’ve got to tell you, I didn’t handle it. I just stood there like an inept moron.

Two things saved me at that moment. First was that my wife was so completely dumbfounded by what she walked in on that she seemed to be in shock. The second was that my daughter was so wrapped up in her own grief turned to passion that she likewise failed to react.

This gave me the precious seconds I needed for my heart to pump some blood back into my brain (it having previously been diverted in a more southerly direction).

Then, more fully oxygenated, that lump of grey matter between my ears rebooted, and I was finally able to think.

Breaking the kiss with Chani, I stood up straight, looked Marsha in the eyes, and in an authoritative tone, said, “Marsha, you look very sleepy.”

Instantly, the confusion and anger left her face. She yawned, turned, and walked back toward the bedroom.

Then, disengaging from our intimate embrace, I held Chani at arm’s length and said to her, “It’s time to play, Chani.”

She smiled, leaned in, and gave me a chaste hug, then turned and skipped off toward her bedroom.

Holy shit. Crisis averted. At least for the moment. This wasn’t over just yet, so I began after my wife. And as I walked, I thought about how to handle this.

The command I used, “Marsha, you look very sleepy,” had worked, but honestly, I wasn’t sure that it would when I said it out loud moments earlier.

I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d used that post-hypnotic suggestion.

I had installed that into Marsha years ago when we were first beginning the hypnotic training. It was a simple way to get her to go to bed so I could “work” on her, without her being consciously aware of what I was doing.

But, as I said, it had been years since I’d used it, and it was a real gamble that it would still work. I got lucky.

Even so, all I had accomplished was to send her to bed (which wouldn’t last long). I needed to address what she had seen. And once I’d taken care of this specific event for Marsha, I’d have to come up with a more permanent solution. Indeed a solution for both my wife and my daughter.

I had let things get out of my control, and I didn’t like that one bit.

With my wife, I had completed her training before my daughter was ever born. And, since the vast majority of my wife’s training had involved creating the sub-personality, Ashley, there was never a need to cover my tracks before. (Plus of nearly all of my “hypno-kinks” remained in the bedroom, so I never worried about Chani noticing anything.)

Of course, over the years, I’d had several other subjects, women who had eventually become sexual playthings. But, again, that always remained outside the home and never really required me to worry about being caught in this way.

But here, in my home, with both my wife and my daughter, getting caught was inevitable. I was stupid not to have already considered it.

So, once this brush fire was completely extinguished, I was going to sit down and work up a plan.

A few moments behind my wife, I entered our bedroom just as she was lying down in bed. She’d been asleep for nearly 12 hours, after working a double shift, so it would only be a couple minutes before she woke up again.

The command I gave her was intended to put her to bed at the end of the day. It simply wasn’t powerful enough to overcome all the complex brain chemistry that was involved in the process of sleep, so I had better get to work.

I walked over to my wife’s side of the bed and kneeled down on the floor, near her head, and began to speak by uttering the phrase I always used to deepen a hypnotic trance.

“Deep sleep, Marsha. Deep sleep.”

“That’s right,” I said as I began to gently pet her head in a calming, loving way. “Just allow yourself to drift down. Calm, Peaceful, Relaxing. Drifting down into the familiar, deep, comfortable, safe place.”

“I’d like you to remember, Marsha. Remember a time when you had a strange dream about me, about your husband. Remember a time when you had a strange dream, and you woke from that dream full of emotion. Maybe you were mad at me when you woke, I don’t know. It’s your memory.”

“Remember what that was like, how it felt so real, how even though you knew, with all your heart and mind, that it was just a dream, you couldn’t help but feel those strong emotions.”

“Maybe it even took you several hours to fully let it go.”

“Remember a time when that happened. Do you remember?”

After just a brief moment, her eyebrows knitted together ever so slightly, and she softly grunted in the affirmative.

I continued, “Of course you remember. It’s a common enough experience. It’s something that happens to everyone from time to time. Perfectly normal. Perfectly understandable.”

Her eyebrows relaxed. Sometimes it’s important to remind people that, even if something seems weird, it’s usually pretty normal. We all just want to be normal.

Okay, this was going good, time to move it along, “Well, Marsha, you just had a strange dream about Chani and me. It probably felt very real. You might even have some strong emotions connected to it, and that’s okay. But, it was just a dream. You will know it’s a dream because you are going to wake up in a couple minutes. And, since you were sleeping, it must have been a dream. Do you understand?”

Again she gave me a soft grunt in the affirmative.

“Good,” I went on. “In just a couple minutes, you will wake up after a long sleep. That weird dream may still exist in your memory, or it may fade away just like any other dream. But, if you remember it, you will understand that it was just a dream. Rest now, and awake in a couple minutes when you’re ready.”

With that, I quickly exited the bedroom, returning to the kitchen to finish dinner. A glance at the clock told me it had only been a few minutes since this whole crazy event started, even though it felt like hours.

About ten minutes later, Marsha mozied into the kitchen. As she talked about her day at work, Chani joined us (as her younger, bubblier persona -which Marsha continued to ignore).

Dinner commenced as usual.

At one point, a few minutes into the meal, I caught Marsha looking at me, “What?”

“I don’t know,” she responded. “I feel like I should be mad at you...”

“Really, for what,” I acted both ignorant and a little hurt.

“That’s just it, I can’t think of anything. Like I feel mad at you, but I don’t have a reason,” she stated evenly.

I tried to lighten the mood, “Ah, I see. You seem to have forgotten that you’re a woman. I’m pretty sure that a woman’s default condition is to be mad at her husband.”

I said it as a joke, and my wife knew that I meant it as a joke, but it also cut a little too close to the bone. (We occasionally argue...well debate...about things like gender roles/stereotypes. My wife tends to lean a little too far into the “social justice warrior” camp for my tastes. So it’s a touchy subject.)

Of course, that was intentional. Now she was mad at me for being a jerk, and she had a good reason to be mad at me. So, she could hang on to that obvious reason for being mad and allow the mystery reason to fade into nothing.

In twenty minutes, she’d be over it completely and likely have no memory of either the events or emotions of her “dream.” Devious, but effective.

Later, Marsha was enjoying some television, and Chani was playing alone in her room. I told my wife I had some work to do, but before sequestering myself in my home office, I swung by Chain’s bedroom to give her the, “It’s time to work, Chani,” command.

I wanted to make sure that she was back to normal because chances are that she had homework to do. And, as long as I stayed in my office, we were unlikely to cross paths again.

Her “transformation” accomplished, I stepped into my office and closed the door. It was time for me to get to work too.

Alright, things had gotten away from me, and I couldn’t allow that to happen again. It was time to take stock of where we were so I could plan a route forward.

I started with what I knew about Chani:

1. She’s under a lot of stress at school.
2. She’s fighting with her best friend, Jessica.
3. She had opened up to Jessica today with some secret that had upset Jessi and caused today’s outburst.
4. I accidentally installed two post-hypnotic suggestions triggered by the phrases
   1. “It’s time to play, Chani.” Which causes her to act and feel like a carefree child.
   2. “It’s time to work, Chani.” Which returns her to normal.
5. I’ve been hypnotizing her for “stress,” and she has really enjoyed it. She is eager to do more sessions. Though, interestingly, she has only brought it up when her mother is out of the house. It could be a coincidence, or she may (at least subconsciously) desire for our activities to be outside of her mother’s awareness.
6. She has responded oddly to my hypnotic instructions. She seems to only respond if I “install” commands while she is in her younger persona.
7. After installing commands, they seem, at least thus far, to become fully accepted by her normal, adult self. As if it has been the norm her entire life.
8. In our last session, I installed the idea that she could take away her stress and sadness by passionately kissing and caressing me.
9. She demonstrated this afternoon (almost to my ruin) that she had fully internalized that concept.

Next, I turned my attention to Marsha:

1. Years ago, I had developed the sub-personality, Ashley, that existed within my wife. Ashley was my loyal sex slave. And, while she would do literally anything I asked, she had very little impact on Marsha’s personality.
2. While “training” Marsha, I had employed several post-hypnotic suggestions which, based on today’s experience, may still work.
3. The reason that I had created Ashley was that I wanted to leave my wife’s personality intact. I had messed with my first wife too much, and it caused problems. I didn’t want to repeat those mistakes.

Pretty straight forward. It was time to write down and formalize my goals:

1. For Chani to willfully and eagerly become my sexual plaything. (Without affecting other areas of her life in any negative way.)
2. For Marsha to accept and encourage this new relationship between my daughter and me.

Simply having written it all down, I immediately felt better. I still didn’t have a plan, but that was next. Just knowing where I stood was a good start.

As I read and reread my lists, something entered my mind. It started as just a thought, then that thought became an image in my imagination.

I closed my eyes, leaned back in my chair, and indulged in this new fantasy. As I did, I felt a familiar and pleasurable stirring in my pants.

After a good minute or two, I had made up my mind. I opened my eyes, picked up my pen, and, with a smirk on my lips and a wicked gleam in my eye, I amended my list of goals.

4. For Marsha and Chani to willfully and eagerly desire to engage in regular threesomes with me.
5. For Marsha and Chani to desire each other sexually and to willfully and eagerly act on that desire.

(So much for not wanting to alter my wife’s personality. Oh well... in for a penny, in for a pound.)

Finally, with all my data laid out before me, I began to work on my plan.

I stayed in my office for a few hours. First working on my plan and then just working... there’s always more work to do.

Finally, around 11pm, I emerged and headed to the family room, drawn by the sound of the TV.

As I expected, my wife was parked on the couch, curled up in a blanket, a glass of wine in her hand.

I sat next to her, and once I was settled, she shifted to cuddle up with me. We mostly sat in silence for the next fifteen minutes or so, with Marsha occasionally filling in some little plot or character detail so that I could at least pretend like I was following along.

Honestly, I couldn’t care less about what was on the screen, but Marsha and I didn’t get a lot of time to just chill together. It was nice.

“Chani in bed?” I asked, eventually.

Marsha replied without turning away from the TV, “Yeah. I looked in on her a little before you came out. She was already asleep. She pretty much just stayed in her room all night. I guess she had a lot of homework.”

“Probably,” I responded. “She’s been under a lot of pressure lately. School, and relationships and, just growing up stuff, I guess. I worry about her sometimes.”

“Worry about her?” Marsha asked, a hint of concern in her voice. “You think it’s too much for her. I mean, I know this can be a difficult time in a person’s life, but we made it through.”

I sighed and looked off into the distance as I thought about my response. “You’re right, but things are different nowadays. The life of a teenager has all the same struggles as when we were kids. Plus, social media. Plus, the looming realities of student debt, global warming, decreasing prosperity.

“When we were Chani’s age, we had all the usual trials and tribulations of being a teenager. But, we also felt like we had our whole lives ahead of us. Well at least I did, I don’t want to speak for you.”

“No,” Marsha responded, obviously thinking about my words. “You’re right. I felt like life was just beginning.”

“Exactly!” I said, turning toward my wife. “I don’t think it’s like that for kids these days. It’s really sad, to be honest. In fact, I see it all the time at work.”

“At work, what do you mean?” Marsha asked.

“Just what I said, we’ve been seeing more and more teens over the past couple years. Probably more than ever before, teens are struggling with stress, anxiety, and depression. And, as you can imagine, when you don’t see a lot of hope for the future, it’s difficult to be motivated to work hard in the present.

“That’s why they usually come in at first. Their parents force them to come because they’re ‘lazy’ or ‘listless’ or ‘unmotivated’ or ‘entitled.’ And the parents what me to ‘fix them.’”

Marsha shook her head in agreement, “Yeah, I hear that all the time. The kids today just don’t want to work. They just want to sit around and play video games.”

“No,” I said, somewhat forcefully. (I see how these kids suffer first hand, and I get a little passionate about it.) “That’s not it at all. That’s just the lie that we tell ourselves, so we don’t have to take responsibility.

“Think about this. When our parent’s generation was our age, they held 40% of the country’s wealth. Our generation only holds about 20%. Ghani’s generation will only hold about 5% of the nation’s wealth when they reach our age.

“Kids aren’t stupid. They see the pattern, and it’s soul-crushing.”

“Wow, really. I had no idea it was like that.” Marsha paused for a few heartbeats then continued, “And it’s horrible, and I feel bad, but -and I’m sorry- but we’re not going to solve the world’s problems tonight. So let’s bring this back to Chani.

“You said you were worried about her. Was that just a general statement about her generation, or was that specifically about our daughter?”

“You’re right,” I sighed and continued. “Sorry, I get a little worked up sometimes. Yes, I was talking about our daughter, Chani, specifically.”

“Go on,” Marsha prodded.

“Well, when I work with these kids, it almost always comes back to their parents. It’s only 30% about ‘fixing’ the kids and 70% about ‘fixing’ the parents. And, to be brutally honest, we’re doing a lot of the same things that I see my problem parents doing.”

“What!” Marsha gasped indignantly. “We’re excellent parents!”

“Easy there,” I soothed. “Of course we’re good parents, and so are nearly all of my client’s parents. But it’s more complicated than that. In today’s world, parents need to be a little more savvy, a little more intentional with how they interact with their teens.”

“How so?” my wife asked, prompting me to continue.

“Well, each parent has different responsibilities, and it’s a little different for boys and girls. For girls (since we’re talking about Chani), the majority of the ‘work’ falls on the mother.”

“Figures,” Marsha said, slightly under her breath.

“It’s the mother’s responsibility,” I continued as if I hadn’t heard her, “to shift from caregiver to mentor and, to a lesser extent, friend. What the mother does, what you do, is to start bringing her daughter, step-by-step, into the mother’s adult world.

“What you’re accomplishing is removing two different, yet equally powerful, burdens from your daughter.

“First, you demonstrate that, as a woman, you have found your place in the world. What you’re saying to your daughter is, ‘Look, I figured it out. All these other women figured it out. There is a path forward, and I’m going to walk with you down your path, for as long as you need me.

“When done correctly, you’re daughter (Chani -I don’t know why I keep abstracting- Chani, we’re talking about Chani) is freed from the burden of feeling like she’s responsible for figuring it all out on her own.

“For a while now, the message we’ve been trying to give girls is that they’re powerful, capable, and able to choose their destiny. Which is an essential and beautiful message. But what we didn’t realize was that the subtext of that message was that they were also unique. That no women before them had the same opportunities and, as such, it was up to them to figure it all out on their own.

“It’s a heavy burden.”

“Umm, I see what you’re saying,” my wife hesitantly agreed, “but I’m not sure I agree 100%.”

“That’s fine, at least think about it.” I continued on, “So, the first burden is related to her future. The second burden is regarding her place in society.

“For both young men and young women, one of the most challenging parts about growing up is learning what it means to be a man or to be a woman. By and large, indeed almost exclusively, it is left up to the child to infer.

“The rites of passage that were ubiquitous among our tribal ancestors have been forgotten. And now boys and girls turn to Hollywood and Instagram to decipher the mysteries of what it means to be ‘mature.’”

“No, I completely disagree,” my wife chimed in, her tone indicating that she was somewhat hurt by what I was saying. “Chani learns what it means to be an adult from us.”

“Really?” I questioned. “In the past month, how much time have you spent with Chani? Not just being in the same room together, but actually interacting in a meaningful way? Four hours? Six hours?”

“Well, I... um maybe...,” my wife started to attempt an answer when I interrupted her.

“How much time has she spent on Instagram? Two, three hours... a day?

“Look, this isn’t an indictment of you, of us, our parenting ability, or our love for Chani. For the first five years of her life, we principally focused on just keeping her alive. Then, we spent several years trying to teach her to be a decent human being.

“Well, she’s moved on, but like most parents, we’re still stuck treating her like she’s 8, not 18. And, because we love her, we need to adapt.”

“And what’s your role in all this?” my wife asked, still obviously not convinced.

“I have two roles,” I responded. “First is to be Chani’s friend and ally. Of course, in matters of discipline, I will always support you. But, as much a possible, I need to be her friend and ally. Sometimes this can even mean coconspirator, but just on the surface.

“Basically, if she’s angry or frustrated with you, I want her to come to me for advice rather than going to her friends. Obviously, this isn’t always going to work, but again, as much as possible, I need to be her friend.

“Second, I need to be the...um avatar -so to speak- of masculinity in her life. Part of becoming a woman is learning about masculinity, and with social media and Internet porn, it’s very easy to get very confused about that subject.

“So, in spending time with her, she can learn how I act, in general, with other people, with women, etc. And from that, get a better understanding of what healthy masculinity looks like.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Marsha eventually responded. “I guess it all sounds reasonable. I need to think about it. What are you asking me to do right now?”

“Oh, nothing,” I said, somewhat defensively. “We were just having a conversation, and I was sharing how I approach these sorts of issues with my clients. We established a long time ago that I am not this family’s therapist.

“I mean, that’s why I haven’t said anything before. You know I don’t feel comfortable ‘dictating’ policy for the household. If you think about it and decide you want to make some changes, or that we just need to talk more, that’s great. But I wasn’t trying to tell you what to do.”

“No, I know, you’re fine,” my wife said diplomatically. “I just got a little defensive because it felt like -even though I know you didn’t intend it- but it felt like you were criticizing how I act as a mother to our daughter.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “You’re right, I didn’t intend it, but I know I can get fired up about this stuff, and I do worry about Chani.

“Anyway, it’s late. I’m going to head to bed. I imagine you’ll be up for a while longer?”

“Yeah,” she responded, still looking distracted. “I’ll probably be in, in a couple more hours. I love you.”

“I love you too,” I said as I leaned in and kissed her. “And Marsha...”

“Hmm?” she absently responded as her attention returned to the TV.

“Deep sleep,” I gave the hypnotic trigger, and my wife’s eyes slowly closed as her body slumped and relaxed.

I spent the next couple minutes deepening and reinforcing my wife’s trance state. I wanted this little hypnosis session to stick with one go, so I wanted her to be deep.

Not everyone responds well to deep trance states. For some people, it backfires, and nothing sticks. But Marsha tended to be pretty receptive in this state.

Once I was comfortable with her state (and I had taken a second to slightly alter her position on the couch—so she was comfortable), I began...

“Marsha, you are a good mother. A really good mother who loves and cares for your daughter, Chani.” The slightest of smiles played across her face indicating that she both heard me and appreciated what I was saying.

“I don’t know, Marsha, but I bet that you do, that being a good mother can be difficult. It requires self-sacrifice. It requires determination.

“Chani is such an amazing young woman. I’m sure that so much of that is because you are such a great mother. Thank you, Marsha. Thank you for all your hard work. Thank you for all your self-sacrifice. Thank you for all your determination.”

Her smile broadened a little, and I continued, “It’s clear that you want what’s best for your daughter. It’s clear that you want her to be happy and healthy.

“I wonder, I mean I don’t know, maybe you can wonder too. I wonder how much happier and healthier Chani would be if you acted on the stuff that I was telling you. The stuff about the roles of mothers and fathers and the burdens of teenagers.

“I can imagine too, maybe you can imagine, even if you try not to, you can imagine that you could be an even better mother. I wonder what that would be like. I wonder what that would feel like, to be an even better mother.

“You can imagine, I mean you can try not to, but you can imagine what that would feel like, what that would be like.

“I wonder if implementing my suggestions would make Chani happier and healthier.

“I wonder if Chani was happier and healthier if that would make you an even better mother.

“At the same time I can imagine, and please try not to imagine this, it’s a powerful image, but try not to imagine this, that we don’t implement my suggestions and how that would impact Chani.

“Try not to imagine Chani, having a nervous breakdown.”

“Try not to imagine Chani, dropping out of school.”

“Try not to imagine Chani, married to an abusive loser.”

“Try not to imagine Chani, taking her own life.”

The look on my wife’s face was heartbreaking. She was in pain. Obviously, she was imagining these horrible things, and obviously, it was causing her tremendous amounts of pain. I hated doing this, but one of the best motivators is the “carrot and stick” approach.

Give them something to run from and something to run toward.

I continued, “And even though you can try not to imagine all those horrible things, you can imagine how nice it would be for Chani to be happier and healthier. You can imagine how important it is for Chani to be happier and healthier. You can imagine how implementing my suggestions will make Chani happier and healthier. And you can imagine how you would feel if Chani was happier and healthier. You can imagine what it would feel like to be an even better mom than you already are.”

After that, I spent another couple of minutes returning my wife to a calm, peaceful place. I instructed her to drift off to sleep for as little or as long as she liked when I counted from 1 to 5.

Then I began counting as I stood up and backed out of the room as I counted. Once I reached 5, I turned and quietly (and quickly) tiptoed down the hall to our bedroom.

I don’t know what time Marsha finally came to bed, but she was lying there when I got up in the morning. It was Friday, and while Marsha had the day off, I didn’t.

I ended up working a little late that day. But, with Marsha home to greet Chani and get dinner started, there was no need for me to rush out of the office.

When I walked through the door, I was immediately hit with the delicious smell of what could only be my wife’s “famous” lasagne. That was a good sign, she must be in a good mood.

I found my wife and daughter sitting in the family room, chatting. It was a heartwarming sight. With my wife’s crazy schedule and my daughter’s unending school workload, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen the two just having a chat.

I greeted them both, then headed off to change my clothes.

During dinner, I learned that Chani had, at my wife’s insistence, taken the day off of school. The two of them did a little shopping and eventually ended up back home, where my wife taught Chani how to make her lasagne. Which, I learned to my surprise, Marsha had never shown her before.

After dinner, I helped my wife clean up while Chani got ready to go out with friends. Soon enough, my wife and I were once again sitting on the couch together, just as we were the night before.

“So,” I started. “Busy day?” My question was pretty straight forward, but my wife had known me far too long not to see through to what I was really asking.

“Well, I ended up thinking a lot about what you said last night,” Marsha replied. “Once I got past my initial defensiveness, I realized that what you were saying made a lot of sense.

“Chani is so precious. You know, I hear all these horror stories of young women whose life ends up in the gutter because of just a couple bad choices. I can’t let that happen to Chani. I’m going to be the best mom I can be.”

I leaned over, kissed my wife, and held her tight as she squeezed me back. It was a pleasant moment of parental unity.

Eventually, after just a little too long for my tastes, and probably a bit too short for my wife’s, I broke the embrace and pulled back. Then I arched an eyebrow at my wife and said, “You know, we’ve got the whole house to ourselves for the next few hours.”

She met my eyes, gave me an impish grin. “I think...,” she said, taking my hand and standing. “we better...,” she upended her mostly full wine glass, pouring its contents down her throat in one large gulp. “Take full advantage of that,” as she set down her glass and began leading me back to the bedroom.

She deposited me on the bed and kissed me full on the lips, the taste, and scent of her wine still very much apparent. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back,” she cooed as she turned and entered the bathroom.

Now, Ashley, my wife’s alter ego, loves my “manly” scent, but my wife, well not so much. So as she prepared herself, I headed to Chani’s bathroom, dampened a washcloth, and “freshened up” my nethers.

A little bit of personal hygiene goes a long way in a marriage.

A few minutes later, my wife found me waiting on the bed as she exited the bathroom. She had touched up her eye makeup, brushed out her hair, and put on a sexy little nightie. Not quite lingerie, but still very flattering (and machine washable too).

She slithered into bed next to me as we began to pet and kiss. Gentle became loving, and loving became passionate as our hands and mouthes roamed more freely and became more insistent.

Now, between you and me, this part of the “mating ritual” is for my wife. I’ve never been big on kissing, it’s always exciting in a new relationship, but I just don’t get much out of it personally. So, as usual, my wife was happy and contented to lie back and allow me to take over.

I used my lips and tongue to explore all her favorite spots. I would kiss and lick and caress one of her erogenous zones, then move back to her lips. Then on to another area, then back to her lips. And, while after 20 years together, I had become pretty predictable in this regard, it still seemed to drive her crazy.

After several minutes of this, my wife was buzzing with pleasure, and as I continued kissing her my hand glided down her stomach inch by inch. Moments later, she audibly gasped in pleasure as my fingers slid over her clit as they continued slowly down.

To my delight, my wife was WET. She was horny, and she was wet. This is precisely the state I wanted her in as I whispered into her ear, “Deep Sleep.”

Immediately all the tension left my wife’s body. Her hands stopped groping me, and her head lulled to the side. But, her breathing increased, and her body tensed back up, just a little, a moment later, when I began gently circling her clit with my finger.

As I talked her deeper into trance I continued circling her clit for a few strokes, then moving my fingers lower and teasing the entrance to her pussy for a few strokes. Back and forth, back and forth.

It kept her physically in a state of high sexual arousal, while mentally, she drifted deeper and deeper into trance.

“Marsha,” I began. “I’d like you to use your memory and your imagination. Sometimes, Marsha, imagination helps us remember, and sometimes memory fuels the imagination. So you can remember, or you can imagine, or you can do both.

“Afterall, Marsha, we’re just having a little fun. Just having a little fun, imagining and remembering, remembering, or imagining.

“In fact, Marsha, it’s a lot like dreaming. Because sometimes, your dreams are like memories, and sometimes your memories are like dreams. Or is it imagination, it doesn’t matter, because it’s just a dream.

“It doesn’t matter, Marsha, because it’s just a dream.”

I continued caressing her most sensitive areas as I spoke. While I could tell her arousal had diminished, she was still highly aroused. Good.

“And sometimes, Marsha, you can control your dreams, but that’s so much work. It’s so hard to control your dreams. And besides, usually, they just happen. So, right now, I will control your dreams. So you can relax and imagine and remember, and dream.

“And sometimes, Marsha, things happen in our dreams that wouldn’t happen in real life. And that’s okay because it’s just a dream. So you can just go with the flow and enjoy the dream.

“Of course, if the dream is a memory, or you’re remembering a dream, maybe it did happen, or perhaps it could happen. But that’s complicated, just relax and enjoy and go with the flow as we dream and remember, and imagine and dream.

“In this dream, Marsha, you’re much younger. Just like so many dreams do, this one takes place in your youth. I’m not sure exactly how old you are in this dream, but it feels good to be so young and free.

“And in this dream, you’re feeling very horny. Notice how horny you feel, Marsha. Notice how turned on you feel.”

For the next fifteen or twenty seconds, I increased the pace of my intimate ministrations. As I did, Marsha’s breathing increased, and she began to make subtle hip thrusting movements, trying to increase the contact with my fingers.

I continued, “And, Marsha, like a lot of dreams, the object of your desire is obscured. You can’t tell who it is. And now, even as you focus on this person, you can’t see who it is. Even so, you can feel certain things about them.

“You can tell that this person loves you. You can feel that love radiating off of them and flowing through you. Allow yourself to feel that love now, Marsha.

“You can tell that this person is strong. Feel their quiet strength.

“You can tell that this person is a man. Reach out, Marsha and feel the arms, the chest, the strong shoulders of this man who loves you.”

She did just that. She reached out with her hands and began to caress my body. I could tell by her breathing and by the little sighs and groans she made that she liked the feel of it.

“Now, Marsha,” I went on. “Notice your own body for a moment. Notice how you feel, physically, and emotionally.

“Notice how much love you feel for this person.

“Notice how much trust you feel toward this person.

“Notice how you need to be closer to this person. How you want to love and be loved even more.” She pulled herself closer to me.

“Notice how your body feels.

“Notice the desire.

“Notice how your lips need to be kissed.” She started making little puckering motions with her mouth.

“Notice how your nipples need to be touched, caressed, licked.” Her breath was becoming ragged as her chest heaved, and she thrust out her breasts.

“And notice, Marsha, notice how your pussy feels. Anxious, excited, longing, and empty. Notice how it feels empty, how it needs to be filled. Notice how it knows, you know, every cell in your body knows that the man lying next to you must fill your pussy with his manhood. How doing so will be the ultimate act of love.

“You know, Marsha, that there can be no more beautiful, more perfect act, no more precious gift of love that he could give to you and that you could give to him.

“Feel the need, Marsha.

“The need, the love, the desire, the longing. With each number I count, they grow stronger and stronger.

“One, stronger.

“Two, stronger. But now you notice some hesitation from this man.

“Three, stronger. It’s a hesitation born out of love, Marsha. He loves you so much.

“Four, stronger. He’s afraid, Marsha. He’s afraid of what might happen.

“Five, stronger. He’s afraid that he’s taking advantage of you.

“Six, stronger. You need to reassure him, Marsha.

“Seven, stronger. Reassure him with your lips. With your words.

She immediately began showering my lips and mouth and cheeks and chin with kisses, and as she did she spoke in the quite, stilted language of the deeply hypnotized, “Love you... Please... So much... Love you... Give... Need you...”

And, as her kisses rained down on me, I managed to continue, “Eight, stronger. Take the initiative. Show him you’re ready, show him it’s your choice.”

She reached down and gripped my cock. Then, through a tangled mess of hands and feet, arms and legs, pulling and tugging and pushing, she managed to position herself directly underneath of me. The head of my shaft aligned perfectly with her eager entrance.

“Nine, stronger. Now, Marsha, as I say the name, you will see who this man is. And you will know, that you always knew. That it could be no one else. That this is perfect, it’s exactly what you want, exactly what you need. You will know, and feel, the love and desire that fills your heart for this man.

“Ten, even stronger. Marsha, look at him, see him, know him, see who it is, who it’s always been, see your father.”

Marsha’s eyes shot open, and in one fluid motion, she wrapped her legs around my waist, lifted her hips, and pulled me into her like she was in some sort of tantric UFC bout. Her hand, still gripping my cock, guided me into her absolutely soaking pussy, and as she did she let a deep guttural hiss, “Yessss!”

Then she looked up into my eyes, though from her point of view, still deep in trance, they were the eyes of her father. As our eyes locked, her whole body began convulsing.

Through gritted teeth, as the walls of her vagina pulsed around my cock, she managed to grunt out, in a staccato rhythm, “Fu-u-u-ck... Me-e-e Da-a-a-a-dy-y-y-y!”

Finally, with one last herculean effort, seemingly every muscle in her body contracted as she groaned. Three heartbeats later, everything went limp as my wife passed out.

I extracted myself from her arms and legs, then laid down next to her.

Tonight’s activities had been incredibly hot, but the success of this exercise wasn’t guaranteed.

I had a little bit more to do, so I got to work.