The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Playing Along

(part 1)

mc mf hu

I was on my hands and knees, staring ahead. I was looking into a mirror, so I could see everything that was happening, but my face was completely blank, and my eyes wide. My thoughts were racing, but for all you could tell, there was nothing going on behind my eyes.

My Master was behind me, getting ready to slide into my very well-lubed virgin asshole. I had gotten my first tattoo a week before, just above my butt: a classic feathered arrow pointing downwards. For, you know, guidance. Above it was a cryptic symbol that was actually Master’s initials, stylized. I could still feel the freshness of it as my Master’s cock teased me.

Eight months ago, my Master was just some guy I kind of knew, I was living with a boyfriend who I assumed I would marry sooner or later, and the idea of anal sex would have made me run screaming, hands clutching my rear defensively. Getting a tattoo at all was a big no, and getting a tattoo specific to a man? “Keys through the mail slot, walking out with a suitcase”—level no.

It’s quite the story of how we got from there to here. Buckle up.

* * *

OK, first, the basics:

Now, this story is intended as jack-off material (it’s fine, I do it all the time), so it is required to describe the people involved. These descriptions might be… slightly idealized, but that’s the privilege of being the author.

The next thing you should know is that when we start our story (I mean, at the real start, not when I was about to get my anal cherry popped above) is that I was not just vanilla, but artificial vanilla flavored. Synthetic vanillin. Super-kinky for me was doggie style. (Which I didn’t do often with JD because the risk of his cock ramming my uterus into my solar plexus was quite real.) I didn’t even like being on top that much (although the just-described cock risks had a lot to do with that too). JD was the ninth man I’d ever kissed, the eighth who had ever played with my tits (and about the ten thousandth who’d tried), the seventh I’d ever made out with, the fifth I’d tit-fucked (I mean, they’re right there), the third I’d ever blown, and the second I’d ever allowed into my feminine mysteries.

I’d taken it on the boobs more than a few times (bad aim is no obstacle there), and I shaved my pubes because I barely grow down there and it just looks weird. I’d never been cum on anywhere besides my boobs (and in my cunt, of course). I’d never swallowed, and the idea of doing so was somewhat less appealing to me than drinking a fabric softener smoothie.

So, not exactly a porn goddess. Trust me, it gets better. I am somewhat more open-minded now. And a lot more open-legged.

The next thing you have to know is that this story is all about hypnosis. I am told that the potential readers are not exactly turned off by this, which is good, because it’s all hypno, all the time. However, I am an honest whore, so I have to caution you that actual real altered-state-of-consciousness hypnosis comes pretty late in the game. We apologize for any inconvenience.

OK, enough preliminaries. Let’s get to it.

* * *

When we start our story, JD and I had been together for two years (yes, we started dating when I was 21, sooo inappropriate). We’d lived together for a year-ish, and we were what I would call marriage-track. We hadn’t discussed it, he hadn’t proposed, but there was this feeling we were settling into our lives and the clear obvious path was forming in front of us. JD was (is) a lawyer, and I was (am) a vet tech (ask me about the number of times a cat has scratched my boobs), and although the student loan payments and the very-expensive-part-of-the-world rent were a thing, we were doing perfectly well.

Our sex life was OK. If you had asked me on the day this all started, I would say it was “great.” Once during the week if our work schedules coincided, once on the weekends, in a very predictable pattern. He’d play with my tits (they are very sensitive, and that’s a reliable way of getting my motor running), then go down on me (he was very, very good at that, I have to say), I would make a heroic attempt at going down on him, then we’d fuck in:

In that order.

(I was touched when I found out that JD had put my Pill-regulated menstrual dates into his phone, until he mentioned that he was timing when I would turn horny so he could take full advantage. That kind of pragmatism is just what JD is all about.)

He would usually come inside me. Once in a while, he’d finish by jacking off onto my tits. If he was ready to go, and I was just not prepared to exert myself, we’d go straight to the jacking-off-onto-tits portion of our entertainment. Sometimes, I’d help by stroking his balls while he knelt over me. I was trying hard to be a good girlfriend.

I know, you’re all shocked at what a filthy whore I was, letting a man to whom I was not (yet) married cum on my boobs. That was as shocking as I got back then.

Stephen was some kind of acquaintance with JD. Stephen was in tech (least surprising reveal ever), and I think they met because Stephen might have been an expert witness on a case JD was working? Maybe? I don’t actually now. But Stephen and JD had formed a kind of casual-guy-friendship, where they would hang out once in a while.

The first time Stephen came over, he spent the entire evening staring at my boobs. I do not exaggerate. I am extremely used to this behavior from men, so I didn’t haul out the eyes-up-here line or anything, but it did not instantly endear him to me. But he was nice enough. (Isn’t that about the most cutting thing a woman can say about a man? “I look at you and go dry, like sand” at least credits the man with some exceptionalism.)

Anyway, he’d come over and they’d talk and argue and play videogames and maybe watch something guy-appropriate (JD loved Suits, so there was a lot of that). I’d retreat to the sewing room because I hate Suits, and watching Stephen attempt to watch the show and my bustline at the same time was giving me whiplash.

(That I am now Stephen’s sex-slave and lifestyle sub means that I can be honest about my initial reaction to him without fear of offense. Being utterly sexually available to him at all times rather settles the question of my current feelings.)

On the fateful day, I stopped the sewing machine, and heard… nothing. Not the show, not conversation, nothing. That was unexpected, so I peeked into the living room, and saw Stephen, and no JD. That was very unexpected.

Stephen was very apologetic, but said that JD had gotten a call about a case and said he’d be back in a few hours. This was 100% credible, because JD did have the habit of just walking out and doing things. If I was lucky, he’d to text me at some point. For a man who could recite SEC regulations from memory, JD was remarkably airheaded about basic relationship courtesies.

I then noticed that Stephen was actually looking me in the eye. This was so refreshing I thought I’d actually try to have a conversation with him.

So I did.

He was boring.

OK, that’s unkind and just me being a catty bitch (which I am, and enjoy being, so get used to it). But his voice was very soft, and it had this monotone quality, and his sentences tended to run together without the spoken equivalent of a period.

After a while, I kind of surrendered on holding up my end of the conversational log, and just listened and nodded, and said “mm-hmm,” trying to figure out exactly what he was going on about. This went on for a surprisingly long amount of time. Without realizing it, I also gave up trying to even figure out the topic of conversation, and just listened to the words like they were background music.

Then, I kind of realized he was saying things that weren’t the kind of thing you say at a dinner party. Like:

“You are feeling very relaxed.”

“Your mind is drifting.”

“Stop trying to think, just listen to my voice.”

“Feel yourself getting sleepier and sleepier.”

“You can’t keep your eyes open.”

Then, suddenly, I realized what he was trying to do. He was trying to hypnotize me! The idea was so absolutely ridiculous that I nearly burst out laughing, but then, I had another thought, which was a pretty cruel one, but see above, catty bitch.

I decided to play along.

As he kept up the patter, I attempted to come up with what a person who was falling under his hypnotic spell would do. To stall for time, I started staring at him, trying not to blink. I opened my mouth just slightly, and started taking very deep breaths. (His willpower was on display, because his gaze did not lower from my eyes.) I deliberately pushed myself to have tunnel vision, until he was reduced to just two (very intense and pretty) eyes.

OK, so, he was trying to hypnotize me. I was not so naïve as to wonder why he was doing that: he was attempting to gain access to my feminine mysteries. (It did take guts to do this right in the apartment I shared with my boyfriend, when my boyfriend could return at any moment. Even though I was pretty shocked at the idea, I was a bit impressed at the cheek.)

I decided to reply to him with attempts at “resisting” (I wasn’t falling into any kind of trance, but the fun was that he thought I was).

“Wait… what are you…”

“No… I… are you trying to hypnotize me?”

“I won’t… I won’t let you…”

He parried each one, and this was proving to be great fun. I could have kept this up forever, but I realized that if I did it too long, he’d realize I was playing, and I wasn’t ready to spring the trap just yet.

I became more and more “entranced” by him.

“I… I can’t think…”

“I… no… I can’t… resist…”

“So sleepy…”

Then, he startled me with a sudden “Sleep, Moira” command. I nearly jumped, but I had kind of gotten into the role of the hypnotic victim by that point, so I slumped back, eyes closed.

“Sleep…”

There was a moment’s silence (I assume he was iring his handiwork), and I heard him stand up, and walk behind me. Then, his hands were stroking my head. This was not what I expected, and having him actually touch me made the game a bit more serious. But it was just my hair and temples, so I went along with it.

“Deeper and deeper. Falling into a very deep trance.”

“Deep…”

“Imagine yourself drifting down a well, like a leaf. Descending into darkness. No thoughts, no will, just darkness filing your mind.”

I slowed down my breathing.

“Darkness… can’t… think…”

“That’s right, Moira. You can’t think at all. Your mind is completely empty.”

“uhhhhh…” (I wasn’t sure if a person whose mind was completely empty could speak, so I went half-way with a sigh.)

“Now, I am going to touch your breasts, and you will let me. You won’t resist. You can’t resist.”

Uh-oh, this was a much more serious notch. I could have just jumped up and screamed or something now, but I wanted to make sure that when I sprung it on him that I had been faking the whole time, his plausible deniability would be completely gone.

I managed another sigh.

His hands slid down off of my head and started stroking my breasts through the blouse. As boob-gropers go, he was pretty gentle and attentive. (One of the many ways that women with big boobs are cursed is that our tits are usually quite sensitive, but men treat them as though they were stress balls.) As mentioned above, my breasts have a hotline to my pussy, and I could feel my body reacting. Which was a bit awkward, but it’s not like I was out of control of the situation, so I just enjoyed the feeling of getting turned on. I changed my sighs to be more aroused and encouraging, since that would reasonably be what a hypnotized person in my situation would do.

He kept playing with them, and I kept reacting. Then, he slid his hands down my top and into my bra. This was quite out of bounds, but jumping up and screaming with two hands down my bra would have been dangerous to both parties. The result was he successfully found my nipples, and began fondling them directly.

My pussy had a mind of its own about this, and was quite enjoying the signals it was getting from the chest division, and I involuntarily started writhing and moaning just a bit.

Then, his hands slid out. Even given the rather non-consensual (as far as he knew) situation, I was just a bit disappointed.

He did an acceptable job of rearranging my clothes, and I heard him sit back down. He started talking again, and I just nodded and said the occassional “ohkay,” with what I hoped was a proper hypnotized voice. He was covering up his tracks, making sure I didn’t anything when I woke up.

And then he woke me up. Of course, I ed everything. But it felt as though the “gotcha” moment had ed, so I just straighened up (making a big show of adjusting my bra back into place), and continue the conversation as if he hadn’t just had his hands all over me.

After a while, he apologized, said he had to go, and did. I didn’t offer him a hug, and he didn’t go for one.

When he’d left, I checked my phone, and there was a text from JD, saying he’d be back late tonight, don’t wait up. I wandered upstairs, feeling very sleepy (no, not for that reason, just a long day), and realized that my pussy was still sending “fuck now please?” signals on up the chain of command. So, I did something I hadn’t done in a couple of weeks: I masturbated.

And I kept thinking about Stephen. Which was very, very weird for demisexual ol’ me.

I played out what would have happened if he had done everything I thought he wanted to do, which was to get me hypnotized, get me out of my clothes, and then fuck me senseless (I guess I started senseless, you know what I mean) in every possible way and have me blow him and then tit-fuck him and then he’d come on my tits which would be awkward because he had forgotten to get a towel so he’d get one with me kneeling there holding up my boobs with his cum running off of them and then he’d tell me to get dressed and forget everything and he’d wake me up and I’d be completely oblivious that anything had happened and would somehow ignore my sore jaw and used cunt and that my boobs smelled like cum.

(Note to hypnosis fetishists: When you are writing stories, and by now I’ve read a lot of them, a woman knows when she has been fucked even if she was not mentally present for the event. If you are aiming for realism, keep that in mind. This goes x1000 for anal sex. You want oblivious, stick with blow jobs. Oh, and: cum does not magically vanish into a woman’s vagina like it is a portal to another dimension. What goes in must come out.)

It was a hot fantasy. I mean, at the point he asked me to strip I would have picked up something and hit him with it in real life, but I went with it. It was good for at least three orgasms.

JD tried to get me going again when he got home, but I was already asleep and cummed out so he didn’t even get off the bench, let alone to first base.

* * *

At the time, I worked a four day, 10-hour-a-day schedule, and was off on Mondays. JD worked basically all the time (gotta get those 2,000 billable hours a year!). So, I was home the next Monday, and JD was at work, and the doorbell rang.

Plot twist! It was Stephen.

At this point, the whole “Fooled you! I was not really hypnotized and just let you play with my tits to humiliate you later!” plan had left my mind, so I was confused as to why he was there. He mumbled something, and then I ed. OK, dude, you want to play this game, fine. I straightened up, thrust out my chest (he did give it a good stare this time), and sighed. He told me to go to the living room. I struggled with what a hypnotized person would say in this situation, and ended up with the diabolically clever:

“okay”

In my defense, I did do a pretty good breathy voice.

I walked into the living room, and he followed. I stood at attention, because that’s what hypnotized people do. And then he said what I knew was coming: “Undress.”

As I undid my shirt (3XL men’s shirts work on my bust pretty well), I thought, OK, fun’s fun, but that’s enough. As I slid off my jeans, I thought, time to surprise him with what is really going on. While I slid off my panties, I was calculating just the right biting comment to make with him.

And I carefully put the words into a pithy sentence as I

undid

each

bra

clasp

and dropped it. He stared, and I stared at the wall over his head. This moment seemed to last forever, and my pussy unhelpfully decided that being naked in front of a strange man was an erotic situation and started getting interested in what was going on.

Stephen waited a long moment as I attempted not to display my rapidly-increasing arousal, and then stood up, and came around behind me. Of course, he then reached around and started to play with my tits, and my pussy took this as confirmation we were now on the short road to bed, and began to indelicately throb. I realized I need to stop things pretty soon or my arousal would start becoming a visible if not olfactory situation. As I finally got the perfect retort formulated, he started whispering into my ear.

“You are getting very aroused.” This was a pure statement of fact at this point.

“You are extremely wet.” Oh, thank you so much for noticing. I’m going to start dripping soon if you keep that up with the nipples.

“Being around me gets you very aroused.” It does? Well, the present evidence does not refute that.

As he continued to whisper sweet “you will do anything I want” nothings into my ear, he did something that I wish he hadn’t (OK, at the time I wish he hadn’t). For the record, men, the “insert wet tongue directly into ear” is gross and do not do that. However, I have a particular weakness for just the very tip of a gentle tongue run down the shell of my ears. In fact, that was what made me discover I am bisexual, but that is a story for a different time.

Anyway, he did that. And I completely lost the train of thought that was going to pull into the station and eject him onto the platform. (And if that metaphor didn’t make any sense, you get an idea of how scrambled my brain was.)

And then… well, a hand left my boobs (good) and slid down my stomach (uh-oh) and then found my clit (oh shit).

(Another aside: Men, why the fuck are you having trouble finding the clitoris? Women’s vulvas are structured to be an explicit and unambiguous guide to it. It’s at the top juncture of the lens-shaped structure. It even sticks out. Please, try to keep up. Those nympho huge-boobed hot bi babes who love cock [raises hand] you fantasize about have as an alterative a very attentive female lover who knows the lay of the land intimately, so up your game.)

So, right now, we have a man to whom I am not the least bit attracted simultaneously pushing all three of my most successful [initiate mating behavior] buttons (he’s even staying off of the clit proper and doing two fingers around the hood, which is “★★★★★, would be fingered again” technique), while whispering into my ear that I am utterly and completely under his power and will do anything he wishes me to and we are about one minute from my cunt, boobs, and ears outvoting my brain and collectively saying, “Certainly, sir, how may we be of service?“

Oh, right, and I can feel his erection against my ass, which is not an unpleasant addition at this moment.

And then he stops.

He just takes his hands away, and walks back to the couch, and sits down.

Really? Really?

And I am careful to stay in character and not scream in frustration, in part because I don’t want to spring the trap on him when I’m naked and horny and in part because I do not want to cheat on my boyfriend with someone who I don’t even want to fuck (parts south unhelpfully chime in, c’mon, let us drive). And while I am not susceptible to guilt for “leading someone on,” I do have to say that yelling at him now for having the presumption to try to hypnotize me into sex would be pretty weaksauce when he almost earned an Access All Areas through the old fashion method of great foreplay.

He then tells me that I want to fuck him (not wrong) and that I will fantasize about him (that’s doable) and he goes on but my brain is already constructing the fantasy and in my head I am bent over the couch and he is pounding me while brainwashing me into being… the fantasy didn’t specify but it involved a lot of sexual availability, and I am 85% sure there was a Princess Leia Slave Girl costume in there somewhere.

When I come back from my reverie he’s telling me that when he leaves, I’ll get dressed and forget he was ever here, to which I want to say not bloody likely given that I can feel my own juice on my thighs right now, but that’s not how the hypnotized-victim game is played.

Then he leaves. And I get dressed, because he said so and anyway I generally don’t (didn’t) walk around the house naked. And then I realize that if I do not masturbate right now, I’ll explode, so I forgo the panties and flop down on the couch, legs open.

Well, that’s what I try to do, but I am in such a state that I miss the couch and land on the floor. Nothing injured but my dignity, and as my legs are (in)appropriately spread, I just stay there, and finger myself for the next hour. And fantasize about Stephen “hypnotizing” me again, but this time doing it properly and fucking me until my brain melts and drains into my cunt.

And at some point, I think, “And then he brainwashes me into being constantly horny for him and turns me into his love-slave,” which was extremely heavy foreshadowing on my part.