The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I had all of a quiet Sunday to digest what I had done with Mira, or to her. It was strange, in that I felt like a person who’d scored big in a lottery drawing, but without being able to tell a soul. My victory bubbled under the surface and several times I caught myself grinning at nothing, like some idiot who could be ridiculously happy for happiness’ sake. At one point I had my weed-whacker out to trim around hostas and azaleas, and under its buzz I kept repeating, “I did it, I did it, I fucking did it!”

There was no immediate reward; I would have to wait an entire week for the true changeover in Mira’s psyche and loins to begin, and there would probably be an additional wait-time after that. Mira would be driven to throw herself at me feverishly but also cautiously, just as I’d directed.

I was in a celebratory mood, but it was Taylor who was probably the happiest man in the city today. I imagined him with a special spring in his step when he returned to work on Monday, his hospital colleagues benefitting from his high spirits. How Mira would dole out her blow-jobs and general husband-fucking was anybody’s guess; maybe a hummer a day and on to ballet, something like that.

“Enjoy the view of her head in your lap while you fucking can,” I saying out loud, while seeding the grass at the front of my house.

One thought that kept coming back to me was that Mira had never said she wanted to please Taylor because she loved him. It had been more like a scheme to patch together a shattered vase of a sexual relationship, using artificial enthusiasm as the glue. In that way she had almost been a co-conspirator in my scheme—she was clueless as to where this new rabbit hole led, but we had dug it together.

I watched an exciting basketball game in the late afternoon, then grilled salmon on my deck in the evening. During that meal, I replayed in my mind every word I had implanted into a hypnotized Mira. I had definitely gotten carried away, with several words going into her that I had never written down.

They were all good, right? My intention all along had been to make it so Mira could not say no to repeated sexual encounters with me, and I liked how far I’d gone in creating something like an outright addiction to my equipment. I especially liked what I’d said about her loving the taste of my cum, and how our sexual fluids were as natural as volcanoes erupting. To hell with any neat-freak aspect of the woman’s personality getting in our way.

I didn’t think about these things very much on Monday, back at work with a normal client schedule. Only occasionally, when a female client lay upon the couch for immersion therapy, did I envision Mira as she had been in that same space. These legitimate hypnotism sessions went remarkably well; I found that with no more plotting to contend with, I had more emotional energy that could be aimed at the needs of my clients.

I did not lose track of what it said about me that I had to make that distinction—my legitimate practice, as opposed to covertly practicing sexual immersion therapy. Perhaps ironically, I could see when hypnotizing others that all my underhanded activities had given me invaluable experience with the technique. I would have to follow my clients’ progress to be certain, but early indications showed my new skill-set to be incredibly effective in traditional uses, just as it was with my clandestine schemes.

I received a text from Mira during work hours on Tuesday, her message reading: U really r a miracle worker. Will call with details if u want.

I couldn’t resist replying that I’d appreciate an update anytime after eight that night, and she called just a few minutes after that.

“Tell me,” I answered. “I’ve been having great progress with clients this week and I hope that’s been true for you, too.”

“You really are like a knight in shining armor. I won’t go into any gory details, so let’s just say that if you want to hang a shingle in front of your office that says ‘Sex Therapist Extraordinaire’, I’ll be happy to give you an endorsement.”

I let out a little sigh before saying, “Grace expressed a similar sentiment after I worked with Lucinda.”

“That’s because… It really is amazing. I’m so much more willing, or relaxed, and able to… Nope, time to zip it.”

I could fill in the words myself, that she’d been able to suck her husband’s cock until he came in her mouth. All I could think was that her husband was both one lucky and unlucky stiff, who’d better enjoy his moment in the sun while it lasted. Because if he blinked, he’d miss it.

“Michael, I just can’t thank you enough.”

I could have stayed silent or said something graceful. Instead, perhaps overplaying my part, I let a bit of bitterness enter my voice as I said, “So everyone gets their fun and games but me.”

She went silent for a little bit; I’d probably surprised her with that. When she did speak, her voice was excessively soothing, as if she had become the therapist. “You’re a wonderful man with every reason to feel confident that you’ll find the right woman. Your time will come, I’m sure of it.”

I was sure of it, too, and equally confident that I would know the moment had arrived when Mira was telling me to hurry the fuck up and get my hard-on inside her.

That conversation ended with me feeling somewhat wistful. In an old movie this would be the age of time montage, with shots of clock hands turning or calendar pages flipping, as I brooded while waiting for the sex to come.

Sometimes I would picture my cock in Mira’s lovely mouth, or the muscles of those incredible thighs vibrating during orgasm. And one midweek night those visions had me heading in the direction of rubbing one out just to relieve the pressure. I was in my bedroom staring at a bottle of lotion, considering whether to do just that, when Grace called. I could tell by her tone of voice that some sort of mischief was afoot.

“Listen, I’ve semi-arranged a blind date for you if you want to follow up on it.”

I sat cross-legged on my bed. “I think I’ll on a blind date, Grace.”

“Hey, not so fast! She’s a looker, Michael.”

“Grace, when are you going to get it in your head that I’m not into hookers?”

“Har har. Look, this is my attempt at payback for what you’ve given me. Which, I’m happy to say, is thighs and toes up to my ears.”

“Dancers certainly must be flexible.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe. And I think Lucinda is even more grateful than flexible, when it comes to what you did for us. She’s been egging me on to set you up with someone; it’s like she thinks you’re freakin’ Ghandi or something. But back to business—her name is Carolyn Preston, and you must call her, like now. I told lots of lies to make you sound presentable, and she’d be willing to meet you for dinner as soon as tomorrow night. She’s gorgeous; I’m not kidding. And sweet and funny, blah blah. But mostly gorgeous with great legs.”

“Good-looking or not, you know I hate blind dates. They’re supposed to be romantic but they can cause as much stress as dental appointments.”

“Yet you will call her. And then, hopefully, you will get your rocks off. Seriously, I think you’ll like her. Tall, straight dark hair, and did I mention the shapely legs? She’s an , which is boring, but at an art gallery, which is exciting. Her legs aren’t quite in Mira’s league—are anyone’s—but they’re super-fine, seriously. Call her. It’s all set up and I will know if you didn’t call her, and I won’t stop hounding you ’til you do.”

I did call Carolyn soon after, knowing Grace would keep her promise about bugging me if I procrastinated. I was stiff at first, but Carolyn had an easy and pleasant laugh, and almost before I knew it I was speaking without any forced cheerfulness, the two of us finding common ground in making fun of Grace’s penchant for matchmaking.

She let me know that Grace had shown her several pictures of me, and she was good with the way I looked. She offered to text a couple of snapshots of herself, and right there while we were talking I got a glimpse of what Grace had been telling me, that Carolyn Preston was a very attractive woman. The second photo, a winter shot where she was smiling while dressed in a stylish jacket above and a little black skirt and heels below, had me thinking she might be a very tasty way for me to season my meat while waiting for Mira to come undone. It was the shapeliness of her legs, exactly as Grace had said, and just like that we arranged a dinner date for the following evening.

When I got off the phone I wondered whether it was absurd for me to try to have a “normal” date with a woman when I’d wrapped invisible tentacles around the sexuality of another. This Carolyn, or any other sane woman, would be repulsed if she knew even a fraction of what I had been up to recently.

And I had to ask myself—was “normal” even something I liked anymore, or was mind-mischief becoming something like a fetish for me? I hoped the answer was no, that it was and always had been about getting my hooks into Mira Cassidy, case closed. But I had this nagging suspicion that if Carolyn and I hit it off and we ended up in bed together, she could be an accommodating and talented lover and that might not feel like it was enough.

Because I might wish she were a driven and even desperate immersion-filled lover, coming with the kind of supercharged force that I’d experienced with Rosita.

At random times I would what it had felt like to see Rosita’s nipples stiffening when she crossed the threshold into my office, and the color in her face whenever I stared at her tits. It was as if we had been engaging in touchless foreplay; just by saying certain things and openly iring her body, I’d been able to get her going and keep her going, practically drooling for the explosions to come. Who wouldn’t find that hot, knowing there were invisible puppet-strings that could be tugged, inflaming a woman’s libido and setting her on a course where we just had to have sex. Then, witnessing the moment when Rosita had tasted my cum, pulling the trigger on such intense climaxes…

Nothing remotely like that would or could ever happen on a blind date—what would I do, neck with Carolyn in my car and convince her to recline the enger seat for some impromptu hypnotism? At best there would be an aura of completely normal romance and attraction, and good old-fashioned sex. Ordinary sex.

Unless, that is, some opening appeared that I couldn’t yet picture. I knew from my practice that pretty much everyone has some sort of fantasy that they hide from friends and neighbors, and maybe Carolyn Preston had a thing about conniving therapists with the ability to turn small kinks into giant clitoris-rumbling earthquakes.

Not at all likely, but I did give the dinner date a try the following night. I decided to place thoughts of Mira and Rosita and hypno-sex in a mental trashcan for the night, meeting and evaluating Carolyn as any potential suitor might. I found her to be a sharp-witted professional woman, politically savvy and really quite lovely in a dark-eyed, long-limbed way. Her legs were extremely fine and she knew that, having chosen a tastefully short dress with heels to show them off.

We talked favorite artists, her field, and dream symbolism, my field, and these interests managed to intersect in the paintings of René Magritte and Giorgio De Chico, and the symbolic art of Carl Jung. Only a couple of times did we stumble into the land of awkward silences, not quite sure what to say next.

There were a few instances when I felt like I was being scrutinized for red-flag tendencies—does he know his wines, and how fast is he going to drink his second glass, that sort of thing. I was bold enough to mention these observations, asking Carolyn whether she had ever been in a relationship where alcoholism had been a problem. That proved to be a bulls-eye, which at first she didn’t want to talk about. Over, ironically, her third glass of wine, she opened up, and told me about Eric, a restauranteur whom she had believed she would marry, until his business had undergone stresses and he had responded by falling face-first into countless bottles of Johnny Walker.

I didn’t try to fix anything. I just listened, and over dessert she got back to smiling, and broached the subject of a second date. I already knew I didn’t want that, and managed to say so without it coming across as a horrible put-down. She affirmed that she was all about chemistry, and we parted with a brief embrace and a quick peck on my cheek that left lipstick to wipe away.

Grace must have received the world’s fastest progress report, because it was less than fifteen minutes from the restaurant to my home, and my cell rang as I had my key in the door.

“Carolyn says you were a perfect gentleman, but that you must be looking for a specific type.”

“I might disagree with that. But how do you know this so fast?”

“It’s called a phone. Did you know she texted me midway through your meal, during a bathroom break?”

“No, and that sounds weirdly black ops.”

“I’ll read what she said then. Here it is: A bit intense but super sharp, love his dimples, might work out, thanks! Then later on the phone, she said she had mister tall, not-so-dark and handsome enough sitting across from her, and you went into therapist mode about an ex of hers. You figured out a bunch of things about their relationship before she even told you, and she found that quite appealing.”

“I deliberately held back on anything deep there. A light touch, hopefully.”

“Sounds very noble, but in the end you brushed her off. She was interested, like interested… She didn’t say this but I get the feeling you could have had nookie tonight. Instead, you let her know you weren’t going there, and she’s bummed.”

“I don’t know what to say, except that as blind dates go it was better than most. But I couldn’t quite picture us together.”

“You couldn’t picture legs that fine in your bed? I find that hard to believe.”

“There’s more to relationships than what takes place in bed. There are all the steps that lead to bed.”

“Your right hand must get tons of work-outs, turning a woman like that away so fast.”

“She was lovely, just… What can I say? I wasn’t bored but I wasn’t charmed enough.”

“You need a woman in your life, and I’m determined to find the right one. It’s a challenge, but I’m not giving up.”

“I wish you would.”

“It was the tits, wasn’t it? Or the lack thereof. I had you as being all into great legs because of Miss Torso, but now I think you wouldn’t have gone so ga-ga for Mira if she didn’t have such a sweet rack. “

“That’s not—“

“Oh, come clean already. Joyce had quite a pair, too… Shit, it’s so obvious. You may be into big boobs even more than Lucinda is. Poor Carolyn—there she was with her looks and those legs, and there you must have been, thinking, ‘Crap, my date only has B-cups, there’s no way this is going to work.”

Her analysis might be spot on, but I said, “Grace, this may come as a shock, but not all of life can be condensed into a physical checklist.”

“Say that to me after I find you a girl with great tits… No, with great gazongas.”

“Like you could just—”

“Such a shame for Carolyn that I couldn’t lend her my boobs to hook you in. I never really thought about this before, but I’d better make extra-extra-sure you never see how amazing they are. You’d probably go all Gollum, mumbling about ‘my precious’.”

I couldn’t help it, I started laughing. “Grace—”

“Fuck! Wait, wait… I think I already have someone! She’s a fellow actress, almost as gorgeous as me, and I’ve got big tits but she’s got tiiits.”

Christ, this obsession with hooking me up. She had said that Lucinda was cheering this on—maybe I’d been too imprecise in that whole do-Michael-a-favor direction. And if memory served, I’d also reinforced that Grace couldn’t take no for an answer.

“Complete silence is your response?” she asked.

“Grace, big boobs or not, let’s don’t get into a pattern of you setting me up on a blind date every week.”

“How about meeting a lovely girl at a party? You couldn’t object to that.”

“That would be more natural, but what party?”

“Lucinda’s twenty-fourth is coming right up. We’d both want you there.”

“Just tell me when.”

“Saturday.”

“This Saturday? That’s two nights away!”

“So I’m a procrastinator. You would be too if you were having great sex every night and morning the way I am. It’s spur of the moment, sure, but you must come.”

“Okay, I’m there.”

“I need to warn you that Lucinda will invite all of her dancer friends, including a certain Miss Torso and her husband.”

My breath drew in; I couldn’t help it.

“So you can see why it might be best that I set you up with a good set of tits for the party, right? No, correction—a great set of tits. You’re going to be mightily impressed with this woman.”

My mind raced, counting the days. Saturday to Saturday meant Mira would either be at the beginning of transition time, or right in the thick of it. Her wish to be sexy for her husband would be fading, deep-seated lust for my cock blooming like crazy. The split in her, always volatile, might be especially so.

“I’ve thrown you for a loop,” Grace said. “But I don’t want you chickening out, okay? I’ll have to confirm it, but I think you’ll have a date, or at least a cohort in Singlesville. Her name is Dee, and she’s really easy on the eyes. And where Carolyn wasn’t blessed, this girl got way more than her share. I call her Triple Dee, and I’ll let you guess why. The roles she gets are when it says right in the script that the character has great big curves up top.”

My mind was whirling, thinking of the angles, the convergences, the dangers.

Grace cleared her throat. “Are you worried that Taylor knows you boinked his wife, and will come at you with a cake-cutting knife?”

“I never boinked Mira,” I said, which happened to be true. But not for long.

Grace made a huffing sound into the phone. “Anyway, if you and Miss Torso can get over any unfinished business and behave yourselves in the same room, not causing the wrong kind of birthday fireworks…”

The question was, what would Mira feel compelled to do by Saturday night, and how strong would those impulses be? I had faith in the hypnotic suggestions that would help her to apply the brakes in a public setting—the not getting caught part. And I thought I should have faith in myself, too. There might be a dick-monster lurking beneath the waves at that party, its periscope eye never losing sight of Mira’s movements, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t appear to be calm on the surface. Considering the nickname that Grace had come up with for my date—Triple Dee—maybe it wouldn’t even be difficult to pay attention to some other woman for a night.

So I said yes, fine, go ahead and set me up with this stranger for the birthday party.

Which turned out to be quite the present for me.

By the time the weekend arrived, I had every reason to feel great about all my immersion efforts with my clients. As an example, there had been a surprising outcome with one, a middle-aged woman named Clarisse. Clarisse suffered from aching ts long after a particularly bad case of Lyme disease, but she and I both knew that part of her problem was psychological.

In her teen years, Clarisse had been saddled with taking care of a controlling mother after a partial stroke, and now she was repeating the dependency pattern with her own nineteen year-old daughter. I had gotten Clarisse to acknowledge that she did sometimes exaggerate her physical situation when it served to steer her daughter into or away from certain situations, but the patterns instilled by her own mother ran deep. I placed her in the immersion state intending to chip away at this behavior, but stopped and switched direction when it occurred to me that it might be possible to lessen her actual t pain, too. That had been early in the week, and Clarisse called the office on Thursday, ecstatic about barely feeling any pain at all, even when going up or down stairs.

It did not shock me that powerful hypnotism could dampen pain receptors; it was almost the reverse of giving Lucinda and Rosita more pleasure than ever during orgasm. The mind and body are connected; every healer knows that. The immersion technique was essentially born out of those connections, and perhaps unique in its capacity to shape them.

I found myself searching through various published trials on the effectiveness of hypnosis when it came to overcoming addictions or chronic pain, and especially its use in relation to sexual behaviors. There were tons of studies about hypnotism therapies out there, but nothing to indicate that other practitioners could do even a fraction of what I was achieving. Also of interest was the degree to which any form of hypnotism was regarded with different levels skepticism. Like some aspects of traditional Chinese medicine and other non-mainstream practices, it was accepted as effective only up to a point by some, while others relegated it to the fringes of New Age pseudo-science.

I had to shake my head at that, because it meant Sell-out Sam was part of the problem. By sprinkling in all that crap about Aboriginal “dream time”, he had robbed immersion hypnosis of a chance to stand on its own feet.

But then, maybe that was a good thing? Also, perhaps this particular technique was close to being crap for those with less talent for using it. In my training in Switzerland, we had been a curated group, and even with other talented people around me it was like I had Stradivarius vocal cords, whereas the others might as well have been working with twenty-dollar instruments from a thrift store.

Was it as simple as that, that I had an innate advantage that explained my level of success? There must be, say, different levels of brain surgeons, some of whom you’d trust completely for extremely complicated procedures, and others not.

Or—wouldn’t this be ironic—perhaps others working with hypnosis, whether immersion hypnosis or something else, were being held back because they wouldn’t allow themselves to experiment in unethical directions. I had, after all, learned so much by succumbing to the devious wishes of my dark, sex-obsessed angels.

“Maybe it takes shit-stepping panther-power to get the most out of the technique,” I said out loud. Sell-out Sam had hinted at that, but I sincerely doubted he’d ever come across a woman as hot as Mira Cassidy to inspire him.

On the Mira front, I half-anticipated that she would be phoning me on the morning of Lucinda’s party, since we were close to a week removed from her hypnotism session. By now she should be feeling that she might want to cut back on gifting Taylor with all these hummers, right when her naughty side started clanging on the metal bars of her cage, demanding release.

The party was the only event on my calendar that weekend, and I somewhat dreaded navigating around Mira and Taylor in a social setting. It was rotten hypnotic timing, and on top of that I didn’t know whether or not to dread meeting Grace’s friend Dee. Grace called in the early afternoon and suggested I come an hour or so early, with the same invitation being extended to Dee, giving the two single dogs a chance to sniff each other before the rest of the pack arrived.

I asked for some photos of Dee, or at least her last name so I could look her up. Grace just laughed and sing-songed, so much better than she could have managed without my immersion help, “All you need to know is Triple Deeee!”

When the time came to get ready I couldn’t decide how to dress, which was very unlike me. Part of it was the blind date, but it was Mira’s presence at the party that was giving me indecisive butterflies. I had on black jeans to begin with, but then I got fearful that Mira would shoot me some semi-hypnotized look that would produce an uncontrollable hard-on. I’d also put it into her that she needed to dress sexy if there was a chance of running into me. I ended up switching to looser-fitting khakis, the closest thing I had to pants that could perform erection-concealing magic tricks.

I was punctual, meaning early, and my blind date was already there. When we were formally introduced, I took Dee’s hand and kissed it, which brought a wide grin to Grace’s face.

It was immediately apparent how there were good reasons for this woman to have chosen acting as her profession. She had an elegant mouth, for one, and naturally wide eyes framed by cheekbones an audience would be able to ire from any distance. Her fine hair, somewhere between honey and scarlet in color, had been graced with some curl that did not look manufactured, all falling just to the point where other, much more substantial curves took over.

Grace had not been lying—this woman had tiiits, which looked all the more impressive because of the trimness of her torso and waist. All this inspiring shapeliness was presented as tight jeans hugging wonderful hips, with a simple white stretch top that clung to fine shoulders and arms, and of course the riveting chest. I was no expert on such matters, but I didn’t doubt that the name Triple Dee suited her quite well.

Lucinda was busy chopping vegetables in the kitchen, and she gave me an exuberant hug before I could present her with my gift, a very special bottle of Sicilian wine. She was barefoot in tight cut-offs, and it seemed to me that the thighs Grace loved so much were in better shape than ever. Her skin looked radiant, too; great sex, it seemed, did a body good.

After offering sweating glasses of sangria, Lucinda gave us a tour of her apartment, a spacious two-bedroom with a deck off the kitchen that was almost the size of an additional room. There were times during this journey from room to room when I could feel that I was being checked out by Dee, and I surreptitiously returned the favor when I could, standing to the side or behind her while supposedly appreciating an art poster or some fine piece of furniture. When we went into Lucinda’s second bedroom, completely bare of furniture so it could be used as a dance space, I could take in Dee from multiple angles because one wall was nothing but mirrors.

I couldn’t help but be a little fascinated with the woman’s body. She had a really fine ass, and all indications were that I would ire her bare legs, too. But all roads led to those tits, Christ. I was determined to engage with the entire woman, not creeping her out with any inappropriate devouring, but facts were facts. Unless, that is, her boobs were fake.

Would that really bother me so much? The answer, I thought, was that I had no idea. I’d only touched one pair of fake boobs in my life, at a bachelor party for a friend, and I’d been surprised by the unyielding firmness of them. Tastes differed, but it had been a little like grasping at hard rubber toys for a dog, rather than soft voluptuousness.

I started to pay attention to the way Dee’s breasts sloped, and all I could say for certain was that the more I looked, the more I liked. If those things were real…

I wanted to find out. And why stop there—the woman was gorgeous from head to foot, so of course I wanted to fuck her. There was no way I could hypnotize her at a party to make sure that happened, which left me with the same tools that anyone else had. I’d have to charm her into bed, which might be possible, but more likely not.

Whatever I did, I’d keep my eye out for any kind of opening that could lead towards getting Dee into the immersion state, where everything was possible.

Because given any chance at all to tip the scales, it was sexual immersion therapy all the way now, baby.