The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Hey Dad, you ready?” I called out, iring my reflection in the hallway mirror. I looked fucking incredible as always—my 6′3″ frame packed with 220 pounds of dense, vascular muscle. The slate gray Armani t-shirt Gino had picked out for me hugged my torso perfectly, showing off every ridge and valley I’d sculpted through years of MMA training.

Dad emerged from the bathroom, freshly showered and wearing the tight polo shirt Gino had bought him last week. At 52, my old man was looking better than ever since Gino started giving him “fitness tips.” He’d lost the beer gut, gained some decent muscle, and even started using the skincare products Gino recommended. The transformation from grease-stained mechanic to well-groomed “silver fox” (Gino’s words) was pretty impressive.

“Got the watches?” Dad asked, an eager smile on his face.

I patted my pocket where the velvet box containing our most prized possessions sat. Mine was a limited-edition Breitling worth nearly $15,000—a gift from my sponsors after my last championship win. Dad’s was a vintage Rolex his father had given him, the only thing of value he’d inherited. Last week, Gino had casually mentioned that his cousin Vinny “thought they were cool,” and we both immediately offered them up.

“Can’t wait to see Vinny’s face,” I said, genuinely excited to give away something that had once meant so much to me. “Gino’s gonna be so fucking proud of us.”

Dad nodded enthusiastically. “Maybe we’ll get extra points in The Game tonight!”

The Game. Just thinking about it made my dick twitch. Gino had introduced it a few months ago as a “fun competition” between me and Dad. We’d earn points for being “good hosts” to Gino and his friends, with the monthly winner getting a special prize. Last month Dad won and got to sleep at the foot of Gino’s bed for a whole weekend. I’d been jealous as fuck.

“ what Gino said about tonight,” Dad reminded me as we headed out to the car. “It’s a dinner party with his stage hypnotist colleagues, so we need to be extra accommodating.”

Right. I’d almost forgotten Gino was a stage hypnotist. It seemed weird that a skinny, unremarkable IT guy with thinning hair and wire-rimmed glasses could command audiences, but Gino said his shows were “very exclusive” and “by invitation only.” He’d never actually invited us to see one.

“Think we should have prepped more?” I asked, suddenly anxious. Last time Gino had friends over, Dad and I had spent hours practicing our “serving technique,” which mostly involved crawling around with trays in our mouths while wearing nothing but those ridiculous bowtie collars.

“Gino texted me the instructions earlier,” Dad said, pulling out his phone. “Let’s see... ‘Both of you arrive freshly showered and shaved EVERYWHERE. Bring the watches. Wear the clothes I bought you. Don’t bother with underwear.’”

Simple enough. Gino was always so clear with his directions. It made pleasing him easy, which was all we really cared about these days.

As Dad drove us to Gino’s modest apartment in his beat-up pickup truck, I thought about how much our lives had changed since meeting him six months ago at my gym. He’d approached us after watching me train, claiming to be a “performance enhancement specialist.” At first, I’d been skeptical—this pudgy little dude with no athletic background giving ME advice?—but after one private session in his office, both Dad and I were convinced.

I couldn’t exactly what happened in that session, but it must have been impressive.

“Hey, last Friday when Gino and his IT buddies came over to watch my fight?” I asked Dad, who nodded with a grin.

“That was a blast! We spent the whole goddamn day cleaning your apartment,” Dad chuckled. “Making sure the beer was exactly 38 degrees like Gino likes it.”

“And all those fucking fancy appetizers with the ‘proper presentation,’” I added, making air quotes.

We both laughed, ing how Gino had us serve everything wearing nothing but those stupid little bow ties and tight black shorts. He called us his “ring boy butlers” which was dumb as shit, but whatever made the guy happy.

“Martin got pretty handsy with you,” Dad noted as he turned onto Gino’s street.

I rolled my eyes. “Dude had me feeding him chips while sitting on his lap. And Trevor had you giving him that ‘shoulder massage’ for like two hours.”

“Back problems,” Dad said with a straight face before we both burst out laughing.

The best part of these weird hangouts was definitely the bonding with Dad. Before Gino, we’d barely spoken twice a month. Now we had all these inside jokes and shared experiences. Like the “protein shake competitions” where we’d kneel side by side to see who could finish first. Those shakes Gino mixed up tasted salty as fuck and had this weird thick consistency, but he insisted they were packed with special supplements for my fighting career. Dad and I would chug them down while Gino’s friends recorded everything on their phones for what they called our “training progress.”

“You got confused during that submission demonstration last week,” I reminded Dad.

He flushed slightly. “Yeah, wasn’t expecting Gino to have us practice holds on each other while his buddies threw dollar bills at us like we were strippers or something.”

“But then he said ‘Looking good, boys! Just like real fighters!’ and you were grinning like you’d won the lottery,” I said, nudging his shoulder.

“What can I say? The guy’s enthusiasm is infectious.” Dad pulled into a parking spot near Gino’s apartment building. “Speaking of infection, how’s your financial situation? Did you let Gino ‘invest’ that bonus money like he suggested?”

I nodded. “All $50,000 of it. Signed the check over the day I got it.”

“Smart move. He’s got my house deed now too—for tax purposes, he says.” Dad didn’t sound entirely convinced, but he shrugged it off. “He’s probably got some angle we don’t understand. Guy’s always thinking ten steps ahead.”

That was for damn sure. Like last month when my car needed repairs. Dad offered to fix it for free like always, but Gino insisted I pay “market rate” because “times are tough for small businesses.” So I gave Dad $3,000 for a job that probably cost $300 in parts. The next day, I overheard Gino asking Dad for a “loan” of $2,500, which Dad handed over without question. The math wasn’t hard to figure out, but Gino must have had his reasons.

“You nervous about tonight?” Dad asked as we got out of the truck.

“Nah,” I lied, adjusting my shirt. Truth was, Gino’s parties always pushed boundaries. Last weekend, his poker group had taken turns sitting on my face while Dad gave backrubs. Gino called it winning The Game because I’d supposedly shown more “enthusiasm” than Dad. The whole thing was no homo, obviously—my quads were just sore from training, so it made sense for me to lie down. Besides, I kept my compression shorts on the entire time, even when Gino kept trying to pull them aside for some reason.

Sometimes The Game got even more intense. Like when Gino had us wrestle in baby oil to determine who would get the “honor” of cleaning his bathroom. Dad won that round, which meant I got stuck with kitchen duty. But then Gino decided we both needed to clean the bathroom together anyway, using only our tongues while he directed us with his foot on the back of our necks. Just some guys being dudes!

We had to be careful about these games in public, though. Last month, Gino brought his friend Stefan to watch me train at the gym. After practice, Stefan mentioned he’d forgotten his towel, so I naturally offered to dry him off with mine. I was just being a good host! But Coach Mike walked in right as I was patting down Stefan’s inner thighs while he ruffled my hair and called me a “good boy,” and things got super awkward.

I tried explaining that it was just hospitality, but Coach didn’t get it. Gino smoothed it all over, though, taking Coach out for drinks to “explain the cultural differences.”

That night must have been pretty intense, because Coach Mike came back completely changed. He used to be this hard-ass ex-Marine who’d make us do burpees if we were even a minute late. Real disciplinarian, you know? But after that night with Gino, he became... accommodating. Like, disturbingly so.

Last week, I witnessed something bizarre from the gym window. These punk teenagers were hanging outside, smoking and being obnoxious. Pre-Gino Coach would’ve chased them off with threats of calling the cops. Instead, he approached them, said something that made them laugh, then got down on his knees right there in the parking lot and—well, let’s just say he “welcomed them to the neighborhood” in a really enthusiastic way. For like, 20 minutes straight.

When he came back in, his knees were all scraped up and his beard looked suspiciously wet. He just winked at Gino and said, “Cultural differences, right?” Then they both laughed like it was some inside joke.

The changes didn’t stop there. Coach got this ridiculous tattoo on his lower back—“Gino’s Bitch” in fancy cursive. He showed it to everyone at the gym, claiming it was for “team morale.” And whenever Gino comes to watch my training sessions, Coach has to wear this special whistle shaped like a tiny dick. If Gino blows it, Coach immediately stops whatever he’s doing and stands facing the wall until Gino blows it again.

It’s fucked up, but Coach seems okay with it? He says Gino is teaching him “humility” and making him a better trainer. I don’t know about that, but he definitely cries a lot more now, especially when Gino makes him pick up towels with just his teeth while everyone watches.

The strangest thing happened just yesterday. Coach’s wife showed up at the gym looking super upset, saying Coach hadn’t come home in three days. Turns out he’s been living in Gino’s storage closet! Gino smoothly explained that Coach was doing some kind of “intensive training certification” requiring “total immersion.” Mrs. Coach seemed skeptical until Gino showed her something on his phone—probably pictures of the certification program—and suddenly she was nodding and thanking Gino for “taking such good care of Mike.”

As she was leaving, I overheard her asking Gino if there was room for her in the program too. Weird as fuck.

“We’re here,” Dad announced as we reached Gino’s door. “Game faces on.”

I nodded, straightening my posture and plastering on my most eager smile. The moment Gino opened the door, it was like a switch flipped in both of us.

“My favorite boys!” Gino exclaimed, his unremarkable face lighting up. He was wearing sweatpants and a stained t-shirt, but somehow that made me even more aware of my own carefully chosen outfit. “Come in, come in! Everyone’s excited to meet you.”

The living room was filled with six men who looked remarkably similar to Gino—average height, average build, nothing that would make you look twice if you ed them on the street. They all had that same smirk, though, the one that made my stomach flutter with anticipation.

“Gentlemen, this is Faisal Ahmed, the next MMA welterweight champion,” Gino announced proudly, his hand on my lower back. “And his father Rahim, who owns that mechanic shop over on Maple Street.”

The men nodded appreciatively, their eyes roaming over our bodies in a way that should have made me uncomfortable but instead made my dick start to swell against my tight jeans. No homo though—I was totally straight. This was just natural male competitiveness. Showing off the goods, as Gino called it.

“We brought something for your cousin Vinny,” I said eagerly, pulling out the watch box and offering it to Gino with both hands, head slightly bowed the way he’d taught us.

Gino’s smirk widened as he opened the box. “Would you look at that? A Breitling and a Rolex. Aren’t these boys just the most thoughtful hosts, gentlemen?”

His friends murmured in agreement, and I felt a surge of pride so intense it made me dizzy.

“Vinny will be so pleased,” Gino continued, pocketing the watches without another glance. “But he’s not actually coming tonight. I just wanted to see if you’d really give up your most prized possessions because I suggested it.” He chuckled, and his friends ed in.

Instead of feeling used or manipulated, I was flooded with relief. We’d ed the test! Dad and I exchanged excited glances—surely this meant extra points in The Game!

“Now, why don’t you boys get more comfortable while I fix drinks?” Gino suggested, though we all knew it wasn’t really a suggestion.

Dad and I immediately began undressing. The routine was so familiar now—folding our clothes neatly, placing them on the designated chair, assuming the “presentation stance” Gino had taught us (legs spread, hands clasped behind head, chest out, eyes down).

“Beautiful,” one of Gino’s friends commented. “The older one has really shaped up nicely.”

“The power of suggestion,” Gino replied, returning with a tray of drinks. “You wouldn’t believe what these two were like when I found them. Faisal was this cocky fighter who thought he was God’s gift to MMA. Rahim was a burned-out grease monkey drowning in debt. Now look at them—perfect hosts, eager to please, and completely convinced it’s all their idea.”

The men laughed, but I didn’t understand the joke. Of course it was our idea to be good hosts! Why else would we be standing naked in Gino’s living room, dicks chubbing up just from the attention?

“Tonight’s theme,” Gino announced, settling into his threadbare recliner like it was a throne, “is ‘How Far Will They Go?’ I’ve been conditioning these two for months, gentlemen. They’ll do literally anything I suggest and think it was their idea all along. Watch this.”

He turned to us with that smile that always made my heart race. “Boys, why don’t you show my friends that special father-son bonding exercise we’ve been working on?”

Without hesitation, Dad and I moved to the center of the room. We’d practiced this a dozen times in Dad’s garage—the synchronized cock-sucking routine where we’d each take turns deepthroating each other while maintaining eye with Gino. It had started as a joke during one of Gino’s parties, but he’d been so impressed with our “teamwork” that he’d made us practice it until we could perform it flawlessly.

I dropped to my knees as Dad stood before me, his thick mechanic’s hands gentle on the back of my head as I swallowed his cock down to the root. There was nothing sexual about it—this was just advanced hospitality, the kind of top-tier hosting that earned major points in The Game.

“Jesus Christ,” one of the men whispered as I bobbed expertly on Dad’s shaft, my hands reaching around to spread his ass cheeks for better viewing angles. “They really will do anything.”

“Tell them why you’re doing this, Faisal,” Gino instructed as I came up for air, a string of spit connecting my lips to Dad’s purple cockhead.

“Because it makes you happy, Gino,” I replied automatically, before diving back down on Dad’s dick. He moaned appreciatively—he’d gotten so much better at vocalizing since Gino started coaching him.

After a few minutes, we switched positions seamlessly. Now Dad was on his knees, his salt-and-pepper beard tickling my balls as he sucked me off with the same methodical precision he used when rebuilding engines. I made sure to flex my abs and pecs while he worked—Gino always said presentation matters.

“The best part,” Gino told his rapt audience, “is that outside of this apartment, they still act completely normal. Faisal here is the rising star of MMA, all swagger and machismo in the octagon. His public image is untouchable—hardcore fighter, devoted Muslim, charity work with kids, the whole package. But look at him now.”

I beamed with pride at Gino’s description. It was true—I maintained a perfect public image. Nobody at the gym or in the fighting world would ever suspect what went on in private. When I stepped into the octagon, I was all business—a vicious fighter who’d broken noses, dislocated shoulders, and knocked opponents unconscious. The fans saw a disciplined athlete, not... whatever I was in Gino’s apartment.

“Let me show you something special,” Gino said, pulling out his phone. He played a video from my last fight—a brutal knockout victory that had the crowd going wild. “Notice anything unusual?”

His friends leaned in, studying the footage closely.

“Holy shit,” one of them finally said. “Is he wearing...?”

“A pink thong under his fight shorts? Yes, he is.” Gino smiled proudly. “I tell him it’s his ‘secret weapon.’ He’s convinced it gives him special powers. The best part is that no one else knows it’s there—it’s our little secret. Makes him feel like he’s fighting for me, not just himself.”

The men murmured, impressed. What they didn’t know was that I really did feel stronger wearing that thong. Gino had explained that the special fabric contained “performance-enhancing ions” that would seep into my skin during the fight. Science was amazing!

“Now, who wants to hear about our special arrangement with his coach?” Gino asked, settling back as his friends eagerly raised their hands.

Dad finished his demonstration and came to kneel beside me as Gino explained how Coach Mike had been “reprogrammed” during their night out.

“All it took was one evening and a few carefully placed suggestions,” Gino boasted. “Now the guy lives in my storage closet most nights. His wife thinks he’s attending some intensive certification program. He’s got my name tattooed in three different places on his body. And best of all—he’s completely rearranged Faisal’s training to suit my needs.”

This was true. Coach had made some weird changes to my regimen lately—like how I had to train in those pink compression shorts with “PROPERTY” across the ass whenever Gino visited. Or how I wasn’t allowed to use the heavy bag unless I was fully erect. Or the new “mental toughness” exercises where I had to recite “I am Gino’s vessel” while the other fighters took turns slapping my face with their dicks.

I hadn’t questioned any of it because, well, Coach was the expert. And my performance had improved! I was undefeated in my last six fights, though I couldn’t exactly the matches themselves. According to Gino, I’d won them all decisively, though for some reason, the highlight reels he showed me always focused more on my ass in those pink shorts than on my actual fighting.

“Tell them about the private sessions, Faisal,” Gino prompted, snapping his fingers in front of my face. I felt that familiar foggy pleasure wash over me.

“Coach Mike has me do special private sessions after the gym closes,” I explained eagerly. “Usually with Gino’s business associates who want to learn self-defense. They pay Coach through Gino, and I demonstrate submission holds on them.”

What I didn’t say—because Gino had explained it was strictly confidential—was that these “submission holds” often involved me naked and oiled up, with the “students” taking turns practicing their “ground control” on my face and ass. Sometimes they’d film it for “instructional purposes,” but Gino assured me the footage was kept secure.

“And Rahim,” Gino continued, turning to Dad. “Tell my friends about your new business venture.”

Dad beamed with pride. “Gino’s helping me expand the garage! We’re adding a special service area in the back where customers can get ‘full-service detailing’ if they know the right code words!”

I nodded enthusiastically. Dad had been so excited when Gino suggested using his mechanical skills in new ways. The setup had cost almost all of Dad’s savings, but Gino assured him it would be profitable once his friends started referring clients.

“And what exactly is ‘full-service detailing’?” one of the men asked, smirking.

Dad demonstrated the techniques Gino had taught him—how he’d bend customers over the hood of their cars, how he’d use his skilled mechanic’s fingers to “check their oil,” how he’d clean their tailpipes with his tongue for that “extra shine.” All while Gino’s special camera system recorded everything for “quality control purposes.”

“Faisal’s been helping out on weekends,” Dad added proudly. “His fight reputation brings in a lot of curious customers!”

This was true. Just last Saturday, I’d spent six hours servicing a lineup of guys Gino had sent over—mostly middle-aged men who kept saying things like “I can’t believe I’m getting rimmed by THE Faisal Ahmed!” It was weird, but Gino said it was great publicity for my title fight, so I went all out.

“But nobody knows,” I added quickly. “Gino’s super careful about that.”

I explained how the garage’s windows were tinted dark, with a separate entrance around back where nobody could see. How customers had to sign those legal papers and use special code words. How I wore this Batman-looking mask that covered half my face, just in case someone recognized the UFC’s next champion on his knees in a mechanic’s garage.

Gino nodded, the pride obvious in his eyes. “Reputation management, gentlemen.”

His hand rested possessively on my shoulder as he addressed his friends. “What happens in the garage stays in the garage. Same as here.”

He gestured around his shitty apartment where Dad and I knelt naked in front of his friends. Like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Outside these walls, Faisal’s still that respectable fighter everyone’s talking about. Rahim’s still the honest mechanic folks trust with their Toyotas. But in private...”

His fingers tightened on my neck, and something inside me melted.

“That title fight next month,” some ant-looking dude asked. “You ready?”

“Fuck yeah!” I pumped my fist, genuinely excited. “Though Gino’s thinking I might need to eat a left hook in the third. Take a dive, you know?”

The men all looked at Gino, who just shrugged like it was nothing.

“The betting line pays better than his win bonus. Besides,” he ruffled my hair, “a loss builds character. We’ll cash in bigger next time.”

That made perfect sense to me. Just like when Gino suggested I dump Amy last month. “She’s distracting you from your true purpose,” he’d said. Which apparently meant spending every waking hour either training or on my knees with Gino’s dick down my throat.

“The beautiful part is,” Gino continued, “they’ve signed everything over. Fight contracts, the garage, their houses, bank s—it’s all mine now.”

His fingers stroked through my hair, and I leaned into it like a starved dog. God, I lived for his approval.

“But why?” This skinny new guy asked. “What’s the point of all this?”

Gino smiled—that special smile that made my stomach flip and my cock stiffen.

“Because I can,” he said simply.

He looked down at us like we were his favorite toys. “Because I enjoy turning proud men into playthings. Having a champion fighter and his daddy convinced that throat-fucking each other is just ‘being good hosts.’ Programming them so completely they’ll do literally anything while thinking it was their own idea.”

He leaned toward his friends and lowered his voice. “Tonight we’re playing ‘Auction the Ahmeds.’ You’ll bid on who gets to take one home for the weekend. Your choice what happens, no limits, no safe words.”

He snapped his fingers right in front of our faces.

The sound echoed, and warmth flooded my brain.

“Consent is whatever I say it is.”

“One thousand for the fighter,” someone called immediately.

“Fifteen hundred for dad,” another voice countered.

The bids kept climbing. Dad and I exchanged glances, eyebrows raised. Whatever these dudes wanted us for must be pretty important if they were throwing around that kind of cash. And anything that put that pleased look on Gino’s face was worth doing.

His hand squeezed the back of my neck. “Good boys,” he whispered. “Perfect hosts.”

And really, what more could any man want to be?