The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The man in the expensive suit spoke with utter confidence from the stage. “Hypnosis, or hypnotism, is a fraud!” A buzz erupted among his audience. He allowed it to continue for a minute or so before raising his hand for quiet. As the noise died down, he continued: “Oh, I don’t mean to say that practitioners are faking it. Certainly I don’t mean to imply that their patients are faking it! But it’s a fraud, just the same.”

He took a drink from the glass of water on the lectern in front of him. “What people imagine as hypnosis is the use of some technique to allow one person’s will to dominate another’s. Under the hypnotist’s ‘spell,’ we’re told, a person can be made to do all sorts of things he or she wouldn’t normally do, or perhaps even be able to do—even made to believe things the hypnotist commands him or her to believe, or to forget what the hypnotist says to forget. We’re told that even after being ‘awakened’"—everyone could hear the quotation marks in the speaker’s voice—“a subject will obey so-called ‘post-hypnotic suggestions’ even without remembering having received them.

“No.” The word came out with absolute conviction. “None of this is true.” Anticipating his audience’s response, he held up his hand for quiet again. The low murmur which had begun died away.

The speaker raised his voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, hypnosis isn’t some magical power. It isn’t even a genuine ‘altered state of consciousness.’ It’s an agreement between practitioner and subject, a way of licensing the subject to do and say things he or she wouldn’t otherwise do.” He paused a moment. “What that means is that ‘hypnotized’ people give themselves permission to follow instructions they would ordinarily reject. They can cluck like chickens”—laughter burst from his listeners—“because they tell themselves they’re not in control and can’t be blamed. More seriously, they can more easily do such things as give up smoking because their, if you will, ‘contract’ with the hypnotist allows them to share the psychological burden of doing so.

“It works,” he went on. “But it works because the subjects allow it to work. Because the subjects do all the work, and use the idea that someone else is in control to avoid taking responsibility for their actions when doing so might be difficult.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he wrapped up, “you’re in charge of your own minds. Always. Anyone who says otherwise is either a fool or a hustler, and either way, not worth listening to.”

Applause broke out at those words, as it usually did, and he turned away from the lectern feeling satisfied.

Dr. Thomas Wissner had been giving these talks for five years now, and he’d learned how to pitch them to his hearers so that he neither went over their heads nor seemed to be talking down to them. That was important. Either mistake would turn people off, and what he had to say was important. People had to understand the difference between genuine science and flim-flam, and hypnosis definitely fell into the latter category. Unfortunately, too many people’s ideas about it came from shoddy magazine articles and TV shows.

He was resigned to the likelihood that even after hearing him, a lot of them would go right on believing those articles and shows. Still, one had to try, even if it meant riding the circuit from city to city like a revivalist preacher, eating up a lot more of his time than his research efforts could really spare.

“Excuse me?”

Dr. Wissner turned toward the sound of the feminine voice. “Yes?”

“Don’t you recognize me?” The voice, he saw, was coming from a striking woman somewhere in her thirties, with honey-blonde hair bound up in a thick bun and a great figure emphasized by the clothes she had on: a short skirt, a snug blouse under a medium-length jacket, and glossy white high-heeled pumps. The top button of the blouse was open, allowing a hint of cleavage to peek through.

“Er, ah,” the lecturer fumbled, “I’m afraid not.” With an effort, he pulled his gaze up from the woman’s chest. Cool blue eyes regarded him from behind lightly tinted cat’s-eye glasses.

The blonde pouted. “Such a pity.” Somehow, she didn’t look disappointed. “My name’s Dr. Kara Pendleton. We met last time you lectured here.” A brief pause, then: “I’m a hypnotherapist.”

Dr. Wissner flushed.

Dr. Pendleton laughed. “Oh, don’t worry, Doctor. I’m not offended by your views. In fact, I actually agree with them, at least to some extent.”

“You do?” Wissner raised an eyebrow. The woman definitely had his attention. He focused on her, consciously keeping his eyes fixed on hers to keep them from wandering back down to her neckline.

“Of course.” Dr. Pendleton nodded. “You’re quite right: hypnosis isn’t some magical power of one person over another. It’s entirely consensual.” She smiled. “That’s the whole principle of my therapy practice. People come to me for help in dealing with certain problems—insomnia, say, or quitting smoking”—she smiled as if at pleasant memories—“and I help them help themselves deal with it, whatever it is. I don’t do it for them, you understand; I just assist them in mobilizing their own inner resources to do what needs doing. If at some level they didn’t want to do what I tell them to do, it wouldn’t work.”

“I . . . see.” Dr. Wissner absently rubbed his chin with one hand. Put that way, it made sense.

“Still,” Dr. Pendleton persisted, “it’s not merely a matter of talking the patient into doing things for themselves. I’ve accomplished some remarkable things in my practice, things you wouldn’t expect from a simple . . . ‘contract,’ I believe was the word you used? . . . between hypnotist and subject.”

“Hmmm.” Dr. Wissner looked thoughtful. “I’d be interested in hearing more.” He hesitated. “Over dinner this evening, perhaps?”

The blonde therapist smiled at him. “I’d like that. Shall we say seven o’clock? At the Grotto?”

“That sounds fine,” replied Wissner. “How do I get there?”

Dr. Pendleton dug a notepad out of her purse and wrote the address on the top sheet. She tore it off and handed it to Wissner. “Since you’re from out of town, perhaps it would be best if you called a cab from wherever you’re staying,” she advised.

“All right,” the lecturer agreed. “I’ll do that.”

Dr. Pendleton’s smile widened. “Fine. Seven, then?” At Wissner’s nod, she extended her hand to be shaken. Her grip was firm and cool. When she loosened it and their hands separated, Wissner’s seemed to tingle with the fading impression of their contact.

The well-built blonde moved away, leaving Dr. Wissner to himself. He shook his head. He didn’t usually pick up dates at his lectures. Or—he smiled ruefully—had he been the one picked up?

It was puzzling that he couldn’t remember meeting her before, though.

Well, he decided after a moment, that didn’t really matter. He met so many people, after all. It wasn’t as if his not recognizing her was important.

The Grotto was an expensive restaurant on the Upper West Side, catering to upscale professionals. Kara Pendleton ate there from time to time, sometimes alone and sometimes with clients. She was seated at her favorite table, in the shade of one of the large ferns which lined the wall as part of the decor, when Wissner came in.

A white-jacketed waiter showed him to her table. Wissner looked her over as he was escorted to her. It was obvious he liked what he saw.

Kara would have been offended if he hadn’t. She knew how attractive she was to men, and she worked hard to keep herself that way. She rationalized these efforts by telling herself that her appearance helped keep men focused on her, and therefore helped her hypnotize them—and to some extent, that was no doubt true. But she was honest enough to admit she was also simply vain about her looks.

The hypnotherapist nodded at Wissner as the lecturer seated himself across from her. “You’re right on time,” she observed.

“Of course,” Wissner responded. He grinned boyishly. “I wouldn’t want to keep a lady waiting.”

Kara laughed. “Let’s order, shall we?” She looked up at the waiter standing behind Wissner’s chair. “Give us five minutes, will you, to look over the beverage list?”

“Yes, ma’am.” The waiter moved away.

Kara picked up her drink menu and gestured toward the copy in front of Thomas Wissner. “They have an excellent selection here,” she observed.

Wissner picked up his menu, opened it and quickly scanned its listings. His companion was quite right. He made his choice.

Soon the waiter returned and the two doctors gave their drink order. As the server left again, Wissner noticed Kara gazing steadily at him over steepled fingers. “Penny for your thoughts?”

Kara Pendleton laughed softly. “You’d be shortchanged.” She regarded him for a moment. “What about you? I’d really like to hear more about why you don’t consider hypnosis real, Thomas.”

Wissner nodded and began expounding, building on the ideas he’d laid out in his lecture. It didn’t occur to him that there was anything odd about Dr. Pendleton using his first name.

He was still talking when the waiter returned with their drinks. As the server set the glasses down, Kara gestured toward the large candle in a square-sided container of tinted glass which served as the table’s centerpiece.

“Of course, ma’am.” The waiter lit the candle.

“Thank you,” Kara acknowledged.

“Would you like to order now, ma’am?”

Kara tilted her head, resting one cheek on a fingertip. She looked into Wissner’s eyes. “Thomas, why don’t you let me order for both of us? You don’t mind, do you, Thomas?”

Wissner heard himself answering, “Sure, go ahead. I don’t mind.” As the words left his mouth, he felt a bit surprised. He didn’t usually let a date take charge like this. Still, what harm could it do?

Kara ordered an elaborate salad and soup for two. Wissner was faintly disappointed; he was more of a meat-and-potatoes man himself. Still, he didn’t object. It didn’t seem worth making a fuss over.

While they waited for their food, Kara coaxed Wissner to keep on with what he’d been talking about before. Every time he seemed about to wind down, she would nod and say, “Go on, Thomas”—and he would go on. He was a little surprised at both of them. He didn’t usually go into such detail on this subject in a purely social setting, but Dr. Kara Pendleton seemed genuinely interested. Her eyes sparkled in the candlelight as she listened to him—sparkled with interest and, it seemed to him, an odd note of amusement.

Presently their order came. The salad was in a large wooden bowl, and the soup was in a covered metal one beside which lay a polished ladle. Small containers of condiments were arranged artfully around the dishes, along with utensils and smaller bowls for their individual servings of soup and salad. The waiter set their table with polished ease.

Kara served herself and then indicated that Wissner should do likewise. “Go ahead, Thomas, dig in,” she directed him. “The food’s delicious here.”

Thomas scooped some salad onto his plate and ladled soup into his bowl from the serving dish. He tasted both tentatively and found that his dinner companion was right. The food was very good.

Silence fell between them as they ate. Finally, however, they were finished. Thomas asked, “Would you like some dessert?”

Kara smiled and shook her head. “No, thank you. I need to watch my weight.”

“All right,” Thomas said. He felt very relaxed after his meal. In fact, in the semi-darkness of their table, illuminated mainly by the flickering light from the centerpiece candle, he felt almost as if he might doze off.

Observing him, Kara Pendleton smiled. Thomas was coming along nicely. He was ready for the next step.

“Thomas,” the therapist said softly, “I really enjoy being here with you. I’ve enjoyed our nice candlelit dinner together. I really enjoy eating by candlelight, you know. I like to watch the candle flame. Look at the candle flame, Thomas, isn’t it fascinating?”

“Fascinating,” Thomas agreed. His gaze went to the candle and stayed there. The flickering light from it played across his features, reflecting ever so faintly in his eyes.

“That’s right, it’s fascinating,” Kara agreed. “The light moves, dances, almost as if it were alive. It’s hard to follow its motion, isn’t it, but it’s even harder to look away, so much harder to look away, Thomas, once you’ve started watching it the way you’re watching it. In fact, you can’t look away at all, can you, Thomas? You can try, but you can’t look away. Try to look away from the candle now, Thomas.”

Wissner struggled visibly to tear his eyes from the flickering flame. After a few seconds, he gave up. “I can’t,” he gasped. “I can’t look away. I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right, Thomas,” Kara soothed. “Relax, Thomas, it’s all right that you can’t look away from the candle, it’s all right that you can’t take your eyes away from the flickering light of its flame. Don’t worry about it, Thomas. Just relax and keep watching the flame.”

Wissner obeyed, letting his body slump loosely in his seat while his eyes continued to follow the flame.

“The flame is so fascinating,” murmured the blonde. “You can’t look away, but it doesn’t matter, because it’s so fascinating just to watch the candle flame as you listen to my voice

“But it’s tiring, too, isn’t it, Thomas? You can feel your eyes getting heavy as you watch the flame, heavier, so heavy, so hard to keep them open, so heavy.”

Thomas nodded slowly. “So heavy,” he agreed. His eyelids fluttered.

“Yes, so heavy,” Kara went on, smiling to herself. “Your eyes are so heavy, you want to close them. You need to close your eyes now, Thomas, you can’t keep from closing them, they’re closing all by themselves and it feels so good, so relaxing, so heavy, closing. Closed.”

At the sound of that final word, Thomas Wissner’s eyelids fell shut. He sat loosely upright, swaying gently, with his eyes closed.

“Your eyes are closed now, Thomas,” Kara Pendleton told the lecturer. “They’re closed, but you can still see the candle flame dancing, can’t you, Thomas. Say ‘Yes, Kara’ if you can still see the flame, Thomas.”

“Yes, Kara.” Behind his closed lids, Wissner’s eyes continued to move, tracking the flame he still saw.

“Good, Thomas. You can still see the flame, and you can still hear my voice.” Kara pitched her words low, so that only her table companion could hear them over the background noise of the restaurant. “But you can see nothing but the flame, you hear nothing but my voice. You think nothing but what my voice tells you to think. It’s almost as if you were hypnotized by the flame and my voice, but it doesn’t bother you, does it, Thomas, because you know there’s no such thing as hypnosis.”

“There’s no such thing . . . as hypnosis.” Eyes still tracking the candle flame behind closed lids, Thomas Wissner bobbed his head up and down.

“That’s right, Thomas,” assented Kara. “You know there’s no such thing as hypnosis, so it doesn’t matter that you’re so relaxed, that you can see only the candle flame and hear only my voice, that you can think only what my voice tells you to think and do only as it tells you to do, because it’s all your own idea, Thomas, because you’re agreeing to it of your own free will. Isn’t that right, Thomas? If it’s right, Thomas, say ‘Yes, Mistress Kara.’”

“Yes, Mistress Kara.” The words came out in a near-whisper.