The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Marsha laid on our bed, unresponsive, as I repositioned myself next to her, my head near to hers.

She remained in the deep hypnotic trance that had, moments ago, allowed her to experience a mind-shattering orgasm. To her entranced and age-regressed mind, she perceived that it was her father who had given her such physical extasy. To her, it was an expression of absolute love, and complete trust shared between them.

Of course, that was just an illusion facilitated by hypnosis and directed by me. In reality, her father had, sadly, passed several years ago. No, in fact, it was me, her husband, who had only played the role of her father in this little charade.

And, while certainly entertaining to watch and participate in, our twisted taboo melodrama wasn’t just for shits and giggles. No, you see for a little over a week now, I have been attempting to corrupt my 18-year-old daughter, Chani. (Attempting and succeeding, albeit slowly.) And tonight’s activities were the crucial next step toward that end.

Look, I know that most people would consider it wrong (seducing and corrupting my own daughter, that is). And, to be honest, a significant part of me also finds it wholly inappropriate. Even after I began the process, I struggled with my decision. But, the more I thought about it, the more I came to realize that it wasn’t wrong. In fact, I was actually helping my daughter, while at the same time helping myself. It was a definite win-win situation.

Just look out at the modern world. Today’s youth, both young men and young women are burdened, shouldered with more uncertainty, and simultaneously, more responsibility than any previous generation.

When my father neared the end of his high school career, there wasn’t a single moment of doubt about his future. He had two choices. Either go work in the dying steel mill or go work in the shiny new car factory. That was it, and even there, the decision was clear.

Get married? Of course. That’s just what you did.

Have kids? Was there any other option?

For someone in his socioeconomic stratum, life was clearly defined. Now, that’s not to say he relished his lot in life (he certainly didn’t and often sought solace at the bottom of a bottle six days a week, and at church on the seventh). Still, he knew what trajectory his life was on.

The same was true for my mother. She chose a simple path and walked across the graduation stage in a maternity gown. Sure, she was a little ostracized, but within a matter of months, the majority of her holier-than-thou classmates were similarly disposed. (They just went through the hassle of getting married first.)

Regardless of when it happened, there was a near 100% chance that my mother would end up a stay-at-home mom. Sure, some she knew went on to college, but that was never an option for my mom. She knew exactly what life expected of her, and she dutifully obliged.

When it was our turn, Marsha and I (though I didn’t know here back then), set out on a road similarly well-trodden, even if the landscaping was different. For us, it was college, then a white-collar job and the 401K. Marriage and kids were still a given; we were just allowed to deffer them a little.

But for my daughter’s generation, for Chani herself, nothing was so certain. Of course, college had always been the expectation, but why? Where in the past, a degree guaranteed financial stability, today it guaranteed nothing (except maybe debt). It is not uncommon for people, even with advanced degrees, to be working menial office jobs for slightly above minimum wage.

Family? Kids? Even they are amorphous options at best, for my daughter.

To us, to the adults who have made our way, it all sounds a bit pedantic. “Yeah, yeah, being a kid is so hard. Cry me a river.” Well, sorry, but it’s true. Not based on testimonials. Not based on anecdotes. Not based on YouTube SJW rants. No, the science is in. It’s real.

Woah, way off topic there.

My point to that little rant is this: My daughter is burdened with all sorts of uncertainty, both about the world and about herself. I can’t change that, but I can help.

I can guide my daughter, and I can, in a few areas, remove some of those burdens. How many young women struggle, every day, to navigate the treacherous seas of sexuality and relationships?

What if I could help her there. I could teach her about her sexuality. I could teach her about relationships. I, someone who loves and supports her more than any other man in this universe, could remove all that doubt and uncertainty.

Then, when she chooses to start dating and experimenting sexually, she’s already been shown the ropes by someone who loves her unerringly.

Rather than uncertainty about herself, her body, her attractiveness, her ability to love, or be loved, I will have helped her to develop real confidence and self-worth.

She won’t fall for the first looser to cross her path just because he looks a little dangerous and seems so sincere when he says, “But Baby, I love you so much! A condom only stands in the way of our love.”

And, if while helping my daughter in this profound and life-affirming way, I get to enjoy her tight, 18-year-old body, her gravity-defying breasts, her warm, wet mouth, and her silky and unsullied cunt. Well, that’s really just an even exchange. At least as far as I see it.

So, it is for that very purpose (getting back on track now) that I guided my wife, Marsha, through her fatherly fantasy. If I was going to take things as far as I wanted with Chani, I would need to have my wife on board.

Speaking to Marsha, I gave her the command to relax and go deeper into hypnosis, “Deep sleep, Marsha. Deep sleep.”

Even though she was physically unresponsive, having seemingly passed out from her intense climax just seconds ago, I knew that part of her brain was still listening to me.

At this moment, she was still overwhelmed with all the positive emotions of love, lust, and trust that we had built up around her father. So, now was the time to enact the next phase of my plan.

“Marsha,” I continued, “Allow yourself to continue to enjoy all the beautiful and powerful emotions associated with this memory of your father. Remember, and continue to feel, that fantastic sense of love that he had for you, and the love that you shared for him. Remember that sense of absolute trust.

“I don’t know why you trusted him so implicitly. Maybe it was because of that love. Maybe you just knew that your father would always, and only, do what was best for you. Perhaps it was some other reason that only you know, and I know that you know that you did feel that trust for him.

“Even now, as you remember back to this shared experience with your father, and even as you begin to become aware, aware that this was just one, one of many shared experiences, you can feel that sense of love, trust, and respect growing even stronger. The more you remember the more you feel it, and the more you feel it, the stronger the memories become. With each breath now, growing stronger and stronger.

“And now, Marsha, as these memories and feelings grow stronger and stronger, I’d like you to once again use your imagination.

“Imagine yourself standing next to your father, holding his hand. Imagine that you’re standing on a lovely garden path. It’s evening, and the sun is setting far off in the distance. As you look out ahead of you, you notice that the path meanders, this way and that. There are flowers and trees, little nooks, and knolls all along the path.

“Begin walking now, hand in hand with your father, following the lovely garden path.

“You may notice that in the evening light, there are some areas of the path that are brighter and others that are darker, but of course with your father’s hand in yours, you feel entirely safe.

“As you continue down the path, you can notice that to the left, and to the right, in those nooks and knolls, scenes are playing out. Not scenes, but rather memories. Your memories. Because this path represents the timeline of your life. From that fantastic first sexual encounter with your father, all the way up to the present day.

“So as you walk down the path, you can notice notable and interesting memories playing out on either side. The bright spots representing particularly happy memories. The dark spots representing particularly difficult memories.

“Just a few steps ahead of you is a scene, a memory playing out. It’s a memory of a time that some girls were especially mean to you. From where I’m at, I can’t quite hear what they’re saying. Something about your looks? Something about how boys don’t like you?

“Oh, and you’re not alone, a friend is standing next to you. The girls are mocking both of you. Your friend is trying to act like it doesn’t bother her, but you can see how hurt she is.

“You don’t really feel anything though, do you, just the steady presence of your father, holding your hand. Because you are free of doubt, free of worry, the special relationship you share with your father has given you that freedom.

“You know, for sure, that when you meet the right boy, he will like you, and he will find you beautiful. You know this because your father makes you feel beautiful all the time. You know this because whether you’re together hanging out at home, on a date, or being intimate in bed, you have experienced how much he loves, enjoys, and appreciates you. You have experienced that love through simple conversation, through gentle kissing, and through passionate lovemaking.

“As you continue walking, leaving that old memory behind, perhaps you notice a tinge of sadness, for those other girls. They didn’t have a father who was willing to share with them, to guide them, and to love them as much as your father did with you.

“Continuing down the path, you pass many happy memories, moments of joy, and pride that anyone might experience. And, here and there, you pass the occasional special memory.

“Special memories of time spent with your father. Some of just being, just hanging out. Others of unparalleled passion and sexual exploration as he taught you so many ways to both give and receive pleasure.

“And there, in the background, not in all, but in many of these memories, is your mother. Watching you two. A look of absolute pride and serene love on her face.

“Just up ahead is another memory; it’s of a boy. This young man, this boy, is trying to shame you. He’s trying to coax you into doing something that you’re not ready to do with him. He’s saying such vile and hurtful things. He’s angry that you won’t give him what he wants.

“And then, for just a moment, you feel scared, you almost capitulate, but once again, you feel that warm assurance of your father’s hand in yours.

“You know what it’s like to be treated as a woman, with respect. You know how a healthy intimate relationship looks and feels. You know these things because you have shared them with your father, over and over.

“Maybe you can feel it now, that subtle smile, not on your lips, but on your heart. A smile because you’re chuckling at yourself. Chuckling at yourself because you almost...almost allowed this little man child to upset you. If this is how he behaves, then you don’t need him.

“So you walk on past, leaving him and that memory far behind, calm and confident in who you are as a woman.

“Continue walking along that path now, enjoying some of these positive memories, memories that you haven’t thought about in years, and memories of you and your father that, until now, you maybe had utterly forgotten.”

I sat in silence. Based on the looks coming and going on Marsha’s face (along with occasional tears...presumably happy tears), it was clear that she was enjoying this little journey down memory lane.

“Now, Marsha,” I continued after she’d had a couple minutes. “We’re going to move just a little faster now. We’re coming to the part of this path that represents your years as a young woman, going to college, getting out on your own.

“During this time, you notice something changing. You notice that you have let go of your father’s hand, but it feels okay. It feels natural. It feels right. You can see that looking over your shoulder, your father is still there, walking behind, smiling, but keeping his distance. He’s still there, but now it’s your turn to lead.

“You can notice that at some points, you are walking alone. At others, there is a man next to you, different men, some very briefly, others for a little longer. Sometimes he’s just standing there, sometimes he’s holding your hand like your father used to.

“You notice that sometimes the man leaves, and your father returns to your side, once again holding your hand, but only for a few paces before he again steps back, allowing you to lead.

“Eventually, another man is standing next to you. It’s the man who will become your husband. He takes your hand, and let’s go. And retakes your hand, then again let’s go. Finally, he takes your hand one last time, and there is a different quality to it.

“Of all the men you’ve walked with, this one feels the most like your father. Not the feel of his hand in yours, it’s different than your father’s. The love is there, the trust is there, but while you’re father’s had a sense of being grounded in the past. This hand feels open to the future. It feels right. It feels as if it was molded to fit perfectly, his hand in yours and your hand in his.

“At that point, you stopped walking and turned back toward your father. I can’t see anymore because that last intimate moment shared between father and daughter was only for father and daughter. It wasn’t for me, so I can’t see it. Even so, I suspect it was passionate, and it was beautiful.”

My wife was openly crying now. It wasn’t tears of sadness or happiness, for that matter, it was the tears that sometimes come from intense emotion.

“We continue forward, forward along the path until today. Stop walking and take a moment to simply get in touch with the present. As you do, Marsha, you may become aware of the fact that Chani, your daughter, has not had the opportunity to experience a relationship with her father like you did with yours.

“And of course she hasn’t. Such a relationship, though good, and beautiful and right, and so very important, is not common. Most people don’t understand, not like your mother and father did, not like you do.

“But wait...

“Remember just yesterday when you were talking with your husband about Chani? He said that it was his responsibility to become the ‘avatar of masculinity’ in her life.

“Was that supposed to be a hint? Was he testing the waters to see where you stood?

“Afterall, you never told him about your father. You’ve never talked about it with anyone, not even your own mother. There was never a need. It was a beautiful moment in your life that had passed.

“What if Chani could have that type of experience?

“Just think what a great mother your mother was to encourage your relationship with your father.

“You’re already a great mom.

“I wonder if you could be an even better mother. I wonder what that would look like to know you were helping Chani to be even happier and healthier.

“I wonder what that would feel like.”

“Good. Now, let all those images go, and sink just a little bit deeper with deep sleep.”

It felt like a good session, and it felt like I had impressed upon my wife what I set out to. Now this whole endeavor, all of tonight’s work was predicated on the idea of implanting false memories in my wife’s mind.

False memories are unethical at best, and dangerous at worst, but I had thought this through.

With Marsha’s father passed, and her mother an old woman, it was unlikely to affect her relationship with them.

Further, I had taken great pains to make sure Marsha saw the whole experience as a positive one.

I had also helped her to transition from her father to other romantic relationships. So, there was no confusion about her ex’s or about our relationship.

And I did it all in a way that felt natural and healthy. An approach that, hopefully, Marsha would want our daughter to experience.

A quick look at the clock showed that it was still early, of course, my wife and I are old, so “early” is relative.

I gave her the instructions that she would remember coming to bed and having a fantastic lovemaking session with me before dozing off after a great orgasm.

I further instructed that when I counted from 1 to 5, she would wake up, having drifted off after coming. She would then decide to clean up and head to bed.

I counted.

At five, my wife opened her eyes, “Oh, boy. Shit, that was intense. You wore me out!”

“I’m glad you had fun,” I said, smiling at her. “I know I sure did.”

She got up and headed to the bathroom. A few minutes later, she returned to bed, gave me a kiss, then crawled under the covers. “I am completely beat, I hope you don’t mind, but I’m just gonna go to sleep.”

“Of course not. I’ll probably be up for a while. You know I can’t sleep until Chani is home. Sweet dreams.”

With that, I also quickly cleaned up in the bathroom, then quietly closed the bedroom door behind me as I left my wife to sleep.

Around 11:30 that night, a few hours after I had wished my wife, “sweet dreams,” Chani arrived home.

I was sitting in the living room with the TV on, while I aimlessly scrolled through Reddit when I heard her pull into the garage. A few moments later, the car door closed, and a few moments after that Chani came inside.

At first, it was evident that she was trying to be quiet, though she was well within her curfew. She was just being courteous, in case her mother and I were in bed. Once she saw that I was up, she offered a friendly, “Hey, Daddy,” put away her coat and shoes, the plopped next to me on the couch.

“Hey sweetheart, have a good time?” I asked.

She had. She told me about the party she went to, and while I was happy to listen, it really wasn’t that interesting. In general, the first few hours of any one party are pretty much the same as any other. It’s not until the crowd has reached a critical mass of inebriation that the memorable stuff happens. And, as it turns out, Chani is just introverted enough that she usually leaves before things get too out of hand.

Hense her sitting on the couch, at home, next to her father, on a Friday night.

She was obviously still “down” but nowhere near as bad as yesterday afternoon. I hesitated for a moment, not sure if it was the right time, but I asked anyway, “So, was Jessica there tonight?”

“No. In fact, I suspected that she wouldn’t be there, which is why I went,” Chani said, a hint of sad resignation in her voice.

As she talked, she had scooted right up next to me, worked one hand behind my back, then rested her cheek and her other hand on my chest.

I responded by wrapping my arm around her and asked another question, “Any boys at this party?”

“Dad,” I could hear the eye-roll in her voice even if I couldn’t see her face from this position.” This wasn’t an 8th-grade slumber party. Of course there were guys there.”

“Oh,” I said, my interests peaked, “...any that you’re interested in?”

“No,” came her reply. There was something in her voice. Frustration, resignation? I couldn’t tell. “I’m not interested in any of them.”

Then, much like the day before, her hand resting on my chest reached up and cupped my face, then drew me to her as she looked into my eyes, leaned in, and began kissing me.

It wasn’t like last time, though. Rather than a manic makeout session fueled by passion and grief. It was instead loving and sensual. There was a definite “need” behind Chani’s movements, but it was a slow-burning warmth, not an explosive heat.

I didn’t hesitate to match my daughter, but this time I made sure to keep one ear, and (as often as I could spare it) one eye, focused on the hallway. I was pretty sure Marsha was out for the night, but I didn’t want to chance it.

You ever make out so long that your lips get kind of puffy and a little numb? Well, it was about that point that Chani began to slow down and eventually stop.

“Thank you, Daddy,” she said as she finally pulled back.

“Of course, Chani.”

She looked... well, she looked frustrated. And, at the moment, I knew exactly how she felt. The zipper on my pants was about to burst, and my balls were seriously starting to ache.

I might be a horny old man, but I ain’t got nothing on an 18-year-old. Especially one who was at a party all evening where it was likely difficult to see across the room through the haze of teenage pheromones.

“I’m gonna head to bed, Daddy,” she finally said. I could tell she wanted more, or at least to say more, but she wasn’t going to. After all, that’s not what we had programmed.

To her, I was always here to make out and to grope when she was sad or depressed. But that was it. So while in her mind, what we had just done was perfectly acceptable, indeed healthy, anything more was likely to fall under her previous moral guidelines (or at least be a confusing gray area).

That’s okay. I can work with that. I mean, the plan had always been to keep pushing boundaries.

I had wanted to work on Marsha a little more. To at least test and reinforce what she and I had done over the past couple days. But, at the same time, I couldn’t wait with Chani.

If I allowed this frustration to stand, Chani might anchor that feeling to me. It could unravel everything we’d done thus far, and make any future work difficult, even impossible.

No, I had to act.

Chani turned, about to get up, off the couch when I got her attention, “Oh, sweetheart?”

“Yes, Daddy?”

“Deep sleep, Chani. Deep sleep.”

It was once again, time to get to work.