The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The following is a work of erotic fantasy featuring mind control. No one under 18 (or the local age of majority, whatever it is where you are) should read further. No one offended by erotic material or by depictions of mind control or physical transformation should read this story. No persons or situations depicted herein are intended to represent actual persons, living or dead, or actual situations present or past.

Synopsis: A nightclub owner exploits a woman who can be drastically transformed physically as well as mentally by hypnotic suggestion.

Transforming Tina

“So what’s the gag, anyway?” The speaker was a heavy-set man with dark, slightly graying hair, wearing tinted glasses and a dark blue suit. “What’s this big deal you wanted to show me, Vernini?”

The other man seated at the small round table hooked a thumb at the stage, where a generously-endowed redhead was revolving around one of several poles. “Wait’ll she finishes her set, Boris, and I’ll show you.”

The man with the shades nodded and settled back to watch the dancer. It would have been almost impossible not to. She was incredible! When she finally slowed, stopped, and bowed toward the audience, the applause was thunderous.

Vernini raised a hand and signaled the dancer. She nodded, then scooped up her discarded clothes and scampered off-stage. A few minutes later, dressed in a green miniskirt with a plunging back and neckline and high-heeled white pumps, she came over to their table.

“Sit down, please, Sinthia,” Vernini said, gesturing at a third chair. The girl sat down, smiling.

“Sinthia?” Boris Lugov was a hard-shelled character, a tough Russian immigrant who’d made money in the old soviet days by all sorts of illicit means and then had come to America in search of greater opportunities. It took a lot to throw him, but he was having a hard time concentrating on anything but the dancer’s cleavage. Watching him, Vernini smirked.

“Sinthia Staxx,” the dancer cooed. “It’s my stage name, sir. Mr. Vernini gave it to me.”

With an effort, Boris forced himself to lift his gaze to meet her wide green eyes. Those eyes were curiously blank, almost as if she were drugged. He made an inquiring noise.

Vernini responded. “That’s what I wanted to show you. Sinthia, sleep now.” The dancer closed her eyes and relaxed in her chair.

“There,” he continued. “Now we can talk, and she won’t notice anything we say or do until I tell her to wake up.”

“She’s . . . hypnotized, then?” Lugov sounded faintly skeptical. “Is this your big surprise? Because if it is, I’m not impressed. There are others like this, you know; the Club Sargasso in New York has recruited a number of strippers through hypnosis and drugs.”

“I know,” said Vernini, nodding. “I used to work there, as a stage hypnotist, years ago. I saw some of that; it helped give me the ideas I needed to strike out on my own. But Sinthia’s special. Let me show you.”

He turned his attention to the dancer. “Sinthia, wake up.” The girl’s eyes opened.

“Now watch this,” he said to Lugov.

“Sinthia,” he said, “I want to speak to Tina now. I want to see Tina. Be Tina for me.”

“Yes, sir. . . .” Sinthia said in a robotic voice. “Be Tina now. . . .”

A moment later, Lugov gasped. “Bozhe moi!”

Tina—rippled! Her wavy waist-length red hair shortened and darkened; her bustline diminished; her complexion turned brown, her eyes black. Seated, it was hard to be sure, but she seemed to have lost several inches in height. When the change was finished, a pretty but unremarkable Hispanic girl sat there, still dressed in Sinthia’s clothes.

“What’s your name?” Vernini asked her gently.

“Tina Mendez, sir,” she responded dreamily. “Name is . . . Tina Mendez.” Her voice was harsher, and carried a hint of a Spanish accent.

“Mother of God,” Lugov breathed, crossing himself in the Russian Orthodox fashion seventy-five years of official atheism had not stamped out. “What have you done?”

Vernini chuckled. “That’s the beauty of it. I didn’t do it. She did. She always has.”

“Where the hell did you find her?”

“Well, it happened like this. . . .”

Paul Vernini was bored. He’d been interviewing dancers for his new club all afternoon. Some of them he’d put through his own special routine to get them to show what they could really do: he’d hypnotized them, commanded them to act out a fantasy of stripping for an audience, and watched. He’d found two candidates that way who looked promising, but no one really outstanding.

He sighed. It was only to be expected, he thought. Real potential star strippers needed more than just a willingness to wiggle their assets and take off their clothes in public. And these days, too, there were fewer women willing to take the surgical route to big-boob land.

There was one girl left. Almost, Vernini told her to forget it and go home. She was too short, too dark, not quite as pretty as some of the others he’d looked at. Still, there was something . . . !

And besides, he told himself, even if she couldn’t cut it as a dancer on stage, he could probably get a nice horizontal mambo out of her once he’d put her under. The old saw had it that you couldn’t get someone to do anything under hypnosis that they’d refuse to do normally, but back when he’d worked at the Club Sargasso, he’d seen that there were ways around that. Either that, or most people’s moral restraints were a lot weaker than they were supposed to be.

He took the girl aside, into the small room off to the side of the stage he used for interviewing. It contained a small round-topped table with two chairs and a wide couch. Overhead a disco-style mirror ball caught the light from several wall-mounted fixtures. A wall switch could set the ball rotating; he also had a remote control which could, among other things, start or stop the ball. At the moment, the ball was not moving.

“Sit here,” he invited the girl, pulling out one of the chairs.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, seating herself. Vernini sat down in the other chair, facing her.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Tina Mendez, sir,” she replied.

“Well, Tina,” he said, “you want to be a dancer, do you?”

Tina blushed. “Yes, sir.”

Vernini pulled the remote control out of his pocket and pressed a button. Canned striptease music began to sound from hidden speakers. “Dance for me, Tina. Show me how you would dance, if I give you the job.”

Tina tried. She wriggled to the music, turned on tiptoe, arched her back—but it was a stiff, mechanical performance. She couldn’t seem to let go. Finally, she gave up.

Her face was red with embarrassment as she said, “I’m sorry, sir, I just can’t—please, can you give me a few moments and let me try again?” She looked ready to cry.

“Sit down, Tina,” Vernini ordered. Tina obeyed. When she was seated, he went on: “Why did you come here?”

“I need the money, sir,” the answer came. “A friend of mine suggested I try dancing as a way to pick up some extra cash. But I guess—” her voice dropped, “I guess I’m not really very good.” Tina’s shoulders slumped.

“Don’t feel bad, Tina,” Vernini told her, turning off the music. “Many perfectly good dancers are inhibited about this kind of dancing. But I may be able to help you, if you’re willing.”

“What do you mean, sir?” she asked warily.

Vernini pressed another button on his control device, and the mirror ball above their heads began to spin, throwing off flashes of multi-colored light in every direction.

“Look at the disco ball,” Vernini instructed. “Relax, and watch how the light flashes off its mirrored facets. That’s right. See the light flashing, flashing. Relax.”

“Relax,” murmured Tina. “Watch the ball. Light . . . flashes off its . . . mirrored facets.” Her clenched body relaxed, her shoulders coming back up; she leaned back in her chair. “Flashing. Flashing. . . .”

“That’s good, Tina.” It was working. “It’s beautiful. The flashes are beautiful. So relaxing. So soothing.”

“’S . . . . beau-ti-ful,” Tina slurred. “Flashes . . . beau-ti-ful. Soo-oothing. . . .” Her eyes rolled up slightly and their lids fluttered, so that only white showed beneath the lashes. Her head lolled back, facing upward toward the spinning ball, and her arms fell limply to her sides.

She was under.

“Tina, can you hear me?” Paul spoke softly but distinctly.

“Yes . . . sir,” responded Tina drowsily. “Hear . . . you.”

“Tina, why couldn’t you dance before? What was holding you back?”

“I’m a . . . good girl,” Tina said. “Stripping’s . . . naughty. Wanted the money but . . . when I got here I felt . . . ashamed. What if . . . my family found out?” She frowned. “Shouldn’t’a’ let myself . . . be talked into this.”

“Tina, I think I have the answer.” It was simple enough, Vernini thought. He pondered his next words briefly before continuing.

“Tina,” he said at length, “stand up, please.”

Tina stood, and Vernini went on: “Close your eyes, Tina.” She closed her eyes. “Picture a woman completely unlike yourself. A sexy, uninhibited woman who might pose for a magazine or strip in a club, who enjoys doing those things and who guys would go wild over. Are you picturing such a woman, Tina?”

After a moment, the answer came: “Yes, sir. . . .”

“Very good, Tina. Does she have a name?”

“No, sir. . . .”

“Give her a name, Tina. When you have given her a name, tell me what it is.”

A pause, then: “Hot Pinque, sir. She’s Hot Pinque, spelled H-O-T P-I-N-Q-U-E.” ‘ “A very good name for a stripper, Tina.” Vernini smiled. “Now I want you to become Hot Pinque, Tina. Be Hot Pinque, NOW!” And he snapped his fingers.

What happened next made his jaw drop. Before his eyes, Tina physically changed! Her dark coloring faded until she looked almost like an albino. Her face shifted, eyes growing large and pale pink with slightly heart-shaped pupils and irises, chin narrowing, giving her features an elfin look; her hair swept itself up atop her head and turned platinum-blonde, with just a hint of pink frost; her skin paled to a baby-pink. Her legs grew slenderer, her feet shrinking. And above a narrow waist and flat stomach, her breasts ballooned fantastically—they had to be at least 60 inches now, and an H-cup at least! It was freakish. It was impossible.

It was terrific!

And Pinque was just as uninhibited as he’d hoped Tina would be under hypnosis, she pranced eagerly to the beat, peeling off her clothes without the slightest hesitation. When she was done, he suggested that the dancing had made her horny, and she threw herself at him, grinding her massive mams against him, smothering him in their soft flesh. Her sweet smell made him dizzy even as his body spasmed in ecstasy against him.

A couple of nights later, Hot Pinque made her official debut, dressed in white pumps with six-inch spike heels, glossy, hot-pink pants which clung to her like a second skin from hips to ankles, and a big white fur boa. When she whipped off the boa to reveal her amazing assets, guys in the audience gasped and creamed. And thanks to Vernini’s programming, the howling applause which followed only drove her to greater efforts.

“Wait a minute,” Lugov interrupted. “Who’s this Hot Pinque babe? What about Sinthia Staxx?”

“I’m getting there,” Vernini answered. “I’m getting there.”

Pinque was a huge success. And no one, not even Tina, guessed the truth. Hypnotized, Tina was made to believe that she was performing as herself, that Hot Pinque was just an act and a name. Even when she saw her reflection in a mirror as Pinque, she would see Tina’s face and body. Vernini didn’t let the other dancers in on the secret, either. He’d been handed the break of a lifetime; why risk spoiling it?

After a while, though, he began to wonder. Tina had come up with Pinque; could she change into other forms too? He decided to find out.

One evening, after Pinque’s last set, he asked her into the interview room. Once she’d settled into a chair, he started the mirror ball. Moments later, she was drifting peacefully amid the pretty lights.

Normally, these days, she would change back into Tina as soon as she dressed in Tina’s clothes; as part of keeping her secret, she would put her street clothes on out of sight of the other performers and staff. This time, though, he used direct suggestion to bring Tina to the surface.

“What is your name?” he asked her.

“Pinque,” she said, giggling. “HOT . . . Pinque. . . .” She licked her lips, and Vernini suddenly found it hard to concentrate. With an effort, he kept his mind on business.

“I need to speak to Tina Mendez,” he said firmly. “Tina, come out, please.”

The transformation was over in seconds. Every time he saw it, in whichever direction, he was as stunned as he’d been the first time. “Yes, sir. . . .”

“Tina,” he said, “you know about Pinque, don’t you? Hot Pinque, the dancer you imagined, the role you play on stage?”

“Yes, sir. . . .”

“Pinque is a very good dancer. But I want you to try something for me, Tina: I want you to imagine a different dancer.”

“A different . . . dancer.”

“That’s right.” Vernini looked at the hypnotized girl, her face turned up to stare mindlessly at the rotating mirror ball. “I am going to give you a stage name for this dancer, and you will imagine the dancer to go with the name. You will make her real in your mind: her looks, her walk, her voice, her behavior, everything about her. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir. . . .” Tina repeated his instructions.

“Very good, Tina. The name is Sinthia Staxx. Repeat it for me, Tina.”

“Sinthia . . . Staxx. The name is . . . Sinthia Staxx.”

“Very good, Tina.” Gently, the hypnotist stroked his subject’s dark hair. “Be Sinthia Staxx for me, Tina. Be Sinthia Staxx NOW!” SNAP.

Again, the transformation took only seconds. When it was over, a stunning redhead with long, muscular legs, broad hips, a tiny waist and massive breasts was in the chair.

“Stand up, Sinthia,” he ordered.

“Yes SIR!” she barked playfully, leaping up and assuming a sexy version of a military posture, complete with salute. There was a slight ripping sound, and Vernini saw that Hot Pinque’s tight pants, meant for her slimmer hips and legs, had torn in several places along their seams.

“Agaga,” he babbled, momentarily lost in lust. “AGOOgoo. AhHUHHH.”

“You like?” Sinthia purred, turning and bending one knee.

“Y-yeahhhh,” Vernini finally managed. “I like. I like!” He swallowed. “So will our audience, I guarantee it.” Flustered, he realized Sinthia had made him come in his pants. He’d have to be careful to stay on top—er, in control—of this one; she punched his buttons. And judging by the wicked smile on her face, she knew it, too.

“That was Sinthia’s first appearance,” Vernini said. “And just like Hot Pinque, she was an overnight sensation. Why not, when she was a wet dream come to life? Any ordinary woman would have had to have surgery up the wazoo to get close to looks like hers, but Tina could turn into her any time.

“Except, of course,” he amended, “Tina didn’t know that. Whatever this—ability—of hers was, it only worked when she was in trance or under post-hypnotic suggestion.” He grinned. “Which meant that I was in charge. Whenever I wanted, I could turn her into Pinque, or Sinthia, or back into Tina Mendez—or into someone else entirely.”

Vernini began to experiment. He found that Tina’s morphing worked best when he commanded her to imagine a new persona for herself. When he tried describing one for her, the results were never quite what he was aiming for. Even when he used an actual person as a model (he’d tried Marilyn Monroe, for instance), the form she conjured up was only an approximation. An obvious imitation. At some level, even in the deepest trance, she seemed to resist “becoming” someone she hadn’t dreamed up for herself.

Still, it was possible to guide the process. He could play Pygmalion to his hypnotized Galatea, provided he used only general suggestions as to height, build, features and behavior and let her subconscious mind fill in the details.

The one thing he had to watch out for, he constantly reminded himself, was not to suffer Pygmalion’s fate. In the myth, Pygmalion was a sculptor who carved a statue of his ideal woman, and then fell in love with it. Of course, if others fell in love with her—or a version of her, anyway—that might be useful.

Over the next several months, Vernini teased out several more alter egos for Tina. The range of her ability was startling: she could assume just about any female appearance, it seemed, though of course he was only interested in gorgeous lookers for Tina’s performances. Finally, he decided it was time for the “real” Tina to disappear.

Under his command, Tina left her day job, closed out her bank account, and vacated her apartment, telling her friends she’d decided to move back to her native Puerto Rico. She honestly thought that was what she was doing. She even believed she’d bought a plane ticket to San Juan; Vernini had carefully guided her through a fantasy sequence in which she’d done so. Finally, she came to the club to say goodbye.

“I can’t stay long, sir,” she told him. “I’m sorry to leave you like this, but I really want to go back home, I think.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Tina,” Vernini said. Keeping her occupied with small talk, the club owner steered her into the interview room.

Suddenly noticing where they were, Tina said, “Pardon me, sir? Why are we in here?”

Vernini clicked the remote to start the mirror ball revolving. “Everything will be clear in a moment, Tina. Just watch the ball and listen to my voice, and relax, and I’ll explain everything.”

Tina, conditioned by her many exposures to the ball, was helpless against it. “Just . . . watch the ball,” she repeated, falling under its spell. “Listen to . . . your voice. Relax, an’ you’ll . . . ‘splain everything. . . .” Her arms fell limply to her sides, and a dreamy, glassy-eyed smile appeared on her face.

“Sit down, Tina, please,” Vernini said, pulling out a chair for her. Tina sat.

“Tina, listen carefully,” he went on. “I want you to see yourself getting on the plane, just as we talked about. Flying down to Puerto Rico. Flying away. Flying.”

“On the plane,” murmured Tina. “Flying to Puerto Rico. Flying away. Flying. . . .”

“But Tina—Hot Pinque, Sinthia Staxx and the other women you play on stage aren’t going with you. They’re staying right here. Only Tina is going away. Do you understand me, Tina?” “Yes, sir,” Tina said softly. She was deeply in trance now. “Hot Pinque, Sinthia Staxx . . . and the others . . . aren’t going away. Only Tina is going.”

“I’m going to count to three. When I reach three, Tina will be gone, to her new life in Puerto Rico, and Sinthia will be here instead. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Tina said softly.

“Very good, Tina. Tina will live in Puerto Rico. But if you ever hear me ask to see Tina, she will come back for a visit. Don’t worry about the plane ticket; I’ll take care of everything if you come for a visit, Tina. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” was the response. “Tina will live in Puerto Rico. But if you ask to see Tina . . . she will come back for . . . a visit. You will take care of everything . . . if Tina comes back . . . for a visit.”

“Very good, Tina. One. Tina is going away.”

“Going . . . away.”

“Two. Tina is almost gone.”

“Almost . . . gone.”

“Three. Tina is gone, and Sinthia is here. When I snap my fingers, Sinthia, you will awaken, relaxed and refreshed.”

“Tina is gone. Sinthia is here.” The physical transformation rippled through the limp body whose slack face looked up at the rotating mirror ball.

Vernini shut off the spinning overhead ball and snapped his fingers.

Sinthia sat up straight, yawning. “Gee, boss, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep in here.”

Vernini grinned at her. “Don’t worry about it. You work pretty hard up there on stage.” Bending over, he pretended to reach down to pick something off the floor, while with his other hand, he pulled out a set of keys from an inside jacket pocket.

“Here,” he said. “You dropped your apartment keys.”

Embarrassed, Sinthia took the keychain and stowed it in her remarkable cleavage. “Thanks, boss. I don’t know what I’d’ve done without these.” The keys were really for an apartment, a place Vernini had picked out and paid for, stocking it with furniture and clothes, after he’d decided to “lose” the original Tina in favor of Sinthia. He’d taken her there in trance and imprinted the place in her memory. As far as she remembered, she’d lived there for nearly a year, although in fact she’d never spent a night. It was a lot of trouble to go to for one stripper—but on the other hand, if you looked at it right, she was really a whole stable of performers in one.

“You can go now, Sinthia,” he told her. “Go on home and get some rest.”

And she did.

“That’s quite a story,” Lugov commented. “One question: I thought you were getting rid of the original Tina for good. Why set it up so you could bring her back?”

Vernini answered, “I don’t do it often. But when I’d been playing around with her shape-changing, I’d found that although any of her ‘selves’ could change into any other under hypnosis, only the Tina personality could create a brand-new one. I decided to keep my options open. And of course, that let me show her to you as well.”

Lugov nodded. Then he asked, “But why show her to me, reveal this secret, at all? Where do I come into the picture?"”

“I need your connections. Sinthia and the others are ready to start dancing big time, but I don’t have the money or connections to set up a really spectacular tour. You do, though; you’ve handled some of the most famous babes in the business. What do you say?”

“What’s in it for me, is what I say.” The Russian’s eyes were cold, calculating. “Answer me that, and I’ll answer you about setting up this tour you want.”

“Money, of course,” was the answer. “Fifty percent. I stand to make plenty off the publicity; I can afford to make less on the tour itself.”

“Seventy-five, in that case,” Lugov responded. “Seventy-five, or no tour.”

“Fifty,” Vernini insisted. Then he added, “Of course, money’s not all I’m offering.”

He addressed the entranced Tina. “Tina, your visit is over; fly away home now, to Puerto Rico. I want to see Natasha now. Come on out, Natasha; you’re on.”

“Yes, sir,” Tina said. She sat up, and changed again. Her hair lengthened, turned jet-black and arranged itself in a high coil ending in a ponytail. Her eyes turned blue and acquired a slight slant. Her skin lightened. Her face and figure shifted, ad her legs grew longer. Finally, she got to her feet. A stunned Lugov stood up with her.

“I am honored to meet you, Mr. Lugov, sir,” Natasha said in a warm, rich voice with just a hint of Moscow in it. She extended her hand; Lugov took it and bowed to her.

“As I said,” Vernini observed, “money’s not all I’m offering. I would of course expect you to come with us on tour to ensure that things go smoothly, and when Sinthia and the others were not occupied, Natasha would be available for . . . social functions.” He smiled.

“F-fi-fifty percent,” a smitten Lugov gasped. He seemed to have gotten stuck halfway up from his bow, his eyes locked on the pale flesh revealed by the neckline of the green dress Natasha still wore. Finally he pulled himself together and straightened up.

Wrenching his eyes away from Natasha with difficulty, he addressed Vernini. “Fifty percent,” he repeated. “And the . . . social considerations you mentioned. It is acceptable.”

“Good,” Vernini said. “Have your people start making the arrangements in the morning. In the meantime . . . Natasha, show Mr. Lugov a good time tonight. He’s going to be our business partner; that calls for a celebration. You’ll find food and chilled wine in the interview room.”

“Yes sir,” Natasha said. She led an unresisting Boris Lugov away.

When they were gone, Vernini chuckled. Somehow, he doubted they’d get to the food and drink any time soon. Natasha wasn’t just another dancer; he’d created her specifically to seal the deal with Lugov, after carefully studying everything he could find about the man. If he’d done his job right, she’d have him eating out of her hand—or maybe sucking her tits—in no time. He could forget about “fifty percent”; Natasha would make sure Lugov did. And with her help, Lugov’s money and influence would be his for the using long after this first tour was over.

Yes, sir, he gloated, rubbing his hands together. This promised to be a profitable business arrangement indeed. For him, anyway.

THE END.