The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I’ll probably always think of the next few weeks, especially the first handful of days, as a mini-Golden Age of having sex with Mira. It wasn’t just that I had her psychically chained to my dick in an inescapable way; it was that the downsides of desiring the woman so much—all the energy spent on scheming, and the drama of the frantic I-want-to-but-I-could-never-do-it phone calls—pretty much disappeared. I knew I could not control the timing of when Mira made herself available for sex; that all had to be navigated on her end, to keep Taylor and everyone else in the dark. But I could rest assured that she would show up eventually, and having those times when we were separated gave me space to work my magic on other women.

Those early days though, where Taylor was gone and Mira could fuck me to her loins’ content… She was at my house every single night, always staying until morning. She confessed that she had become worse than most men, in that she went through her days thinking about sex so much of the time, daydreaming about the things she would do to my dick the next time she could engage with it.

One early morning, after sucking me off and greedily licking me clean, she told me she’d had a dream where my cock was the size of a statue in a public square. In that dream she kneeled in front of it in reverence, until feeling compelled to climb to the top to rub her pussy all over the giant crown.

An illogical and exaggerated sense of scale is one of the classic traits of surrealism, and in this case it really was a perfect representation of Mira’s immersion-influenced attitude towards my cock. There was something like reverence in her eyes every time she saw me getting hard—she usually went completely still for a brief period of time, much like a cat before it strikes unwary prey. In Mira’s case, it was as if all the molecules that made up her sexual core condensed, drawn together so their combined energy could escalate exponentially, right before her naughty side sprang into action and she devised some new way to destroy my erection.

She was not one to phone or text ahead very often, so I mostly didn’t know when she would appear at my house. Once, for instance, I stepped into the shower at the end of the day, only to have it turned into a porn version of Alfred Hitchcock’s famous shower scene, Mira pulling the curtain aside before soapy hands lathered my cock and jerked me off. Or there was the night that I sat on the couch with a cold beer, watching an episode of The Crown, and once again I had that tingly sensation of being observed. Turning my head to the right, I found Mira’s head with her cheek resting on the sofa back, not two feet away. She giggled with delight at my surprise, and leaped over the couch to pull my pants down, proving—as if I needed more proof by then—that she had lost all fear of giving head and swallowing cum.

Some things were not a surprise, like how much Mira loved the taste of me. She told me so almost every time she sucked me off, even going a step further by claiming that ingesting my cum increased her physical energy. I hadn’t put that idea into her; I liked it enough, though, that I’d probably use it on someone else.

It might be right to say that what Mira and I experienced together was as close to pure animal attraction as any two human beings are likely to get. Her beauty and the hypnotic ferocity of her need made my panther roar, and because of the hypnosis that had unchained her sexual hunger and turned my cock into her perfect mate, she matched or even outperformed me in of needing to pounce and claw and fuck.

She did literally claw me several times, although never on my face, which I attributed to the need for caution that I’d instilled in her, to give no clues to the outside world about our affair. In fact, to a casual observer it would have appeared that nothing about my life had changed—I ran most mornings and left for work at the same time as always, and I mostly came home at the same time.

But a professional observer might take note that I changed online shopping delivery instructions so that packages were always shipped to my office, eliminating the chances of a randomly-timed ringing of the doorbell at home. A keen eye might have discovered the parking patterns of a silver Mercedes, sometimes in the cul-de-sac near my home, other times hidden away on a neighboring street. And anyone with thermal imaging technology would have gotten their instruments overloaded, from all the heat that the finest legs on the East Coast generated under my roof.

Those legs, those incomprehensibly sculpted legs… It was Mira who caught on to the effect she had on me when she donned pantyhose and stockings, especially when they were black. Even better were black stockings with patterns, the geometries showcasing how developed her quads and glutes were, and the stunning fullness and roundness of her calves.

She had always liked to show-off in daring skirts and stockings in public, knowing that her legs were beautiful to the point of being disruptive, and it took no time for her to realize that something about the color black adorning her legs put nuclear fuel rods inside my balls, making me more aggressive in my fucking. She usually wanted ferocity that could match her own, her attitude about the particulars of my cock the exact opposite of Joyce’s. Mira craved ultimate penetration, and by assuming ridiculously athletic positions she could make it so my dick reached so deep into her that it had to be making friends with her womb.

The woman came explosively and perhaps even violently, every time I plumbed her depths. It was just as incredible for me; I knew how crazy this thought was, but I would swear that Mira had the slipperiest pussy in the world, like all the beauty on the outside needed to be matched or even outdone in some way on the inside. She loved sucking me off and hand-jobbing and tit-jobbing me, but it was old-fashioned Dick-in-Jane that we both craved the most, and with her incredible flexibility she could deliver that experience in dozens of ways.

I wasn’t getting enough sleep, but for the most part I stayed alert during my daytime therapy sessions, helped by the fact that I was engaged in immersion work with almost every client. I can’t pretend to be proud of this, but I took a few moments with every hypnotized client to expand their belief that I was a remarkably kind and effective therapist.

By Wednesday, three days into panther-pleasing sexual immersion ecstasy with Mira, it felt like I had a natural rhythm going, where I soothed psyches and guided people into overcoming errant behaviors by day, and helped myself to heaping portions of sex-addicted Mira Cassidy at night.

That rhythm began to sprout devil horns on Thursday, when I once again blurred the boundaries between legitimate therapy and the ability of the immersion work to affect sexual behaviors. The day started innocently enough, with me going rather hard at two clients’ eating disorders, secure in the knowledge that the hypnotism would help them to gradually shed most or all of thirty and forty pounds, respectively. My eleven o’clock appointment was more challenging, using the technique to alleviate the phantom-limb pain of an Afghanistan war vet, who’d lost his left arm below the elbow.

I could blame what I did with my fourth client on the successes I was having with these psycho-physical treatments; or, I could be honest and it that I couldn’t resist temptation when another opportunity presented itself to affect the sexual capacities of an extremely beautiful woman.

The client in question was Terri Thorngood, easily my sexiest client now that Rosita Bello was not on the scene. It was only our third session, and this was to be the first time that I would guide her into the immersion state.

Terri was experiencing anxiety related to her live-in boyfriend, whom—until recently—she had thought she would marry. His name was Alexandre; he was originally French-Canadian, and he made his living as a much sought-after fashion model.

Terri had been a model, too, but had transitioned from that career into helping her mother run a successful garden center. It was easy to imagine Terri’s face in either world—she looked ready-made for make-up and lipstick ads, and there was a freshness to her features that would be right at home on a flowers and garden magazine cover.

The woman had eyes that were very wide and very green, but it was her mouth that was by far her best feature. It was a succulent mouth, the upper and lower lips both sensuously full, and she had told me that it was her mouth that had brought in the most modeling bucks. It really was captivating—I had found myself studying it at different times, appreciating the way it pouted when she expressed frustration or concern, and delighting whenever she flashed a gleaming toothpaste commercial smile.

The smiles, unfortunately, had been rare. In our first two sessions, Terri had tearfully articulated the issues in her relationship with Alexandre, which to my ear sounded like something straight out of a relationship advice column. According to her, Alexandre was significantly better-looking than she was, and this fact, plus the way other women desired him, had led to an almost crippling erosion of her self-confidence.

My first reaction, thankfully never expressed, had been that the woman must be crazy, because a woman this beautiful had insecurities about her looks? She probably intuited my skepticism, wasting no time in showing me a few pictures of her boyfriend. There was no denying that Alexandre was an exceptionally attractive man, with sharp intelligent eyes and a jawline that left even mine in the dust.

I started to get it. By every physical measure, Alexandre really was an exquisitely beautiful human being, and Terri was living the downside of that. She’d been deliriously happy when they had moved in together, but several recent events had opened fault-lines in their relationship, and consequently in her self-confidence. One of Terri’s friends had expressed that she—and really all of Terri’s close friends—had terrible crushes on Alexandre, and when Terri had brought this up with him, he’d confessed to sleeping with one of the friends, twice.

“I felt so betrayed, not just by Alexandre but also by Beth! Alexandre insists he wants to stay with me, even marry me,” she continued. “But now he says there are , conditions.”

“Such as?”

“He’s getting more international work, gigs in London and Paris, so it’s a given that he’s going to be traveling. He says it’s not realistic to believe that we won’t be tempted every now and then, so we’d need to see ourselves as being in a polyamorous relationship. And, if we went there, maybe even a polyamorous marriage.”

Polyamory—I knew the territory in a clinical way, and some people could be perfectly content in such arrangements. Terri, obviously, was not at all happy with this turn of events, but she also didn’t feel that she could break things off with Alexandre.

“I’d be his rock, his true significant other—he keeps assuring me about that. But he wants the freedom to have occasional hook-ups with other women, and I can’t… Honesty is important and I try to convince myself that it’s a good thing, the way he’s being so up-front about it. He’s not being a jerk… I mean he was a total jerk with Beth, but now… He’s not continuing to sneak behind my back, but I just don’t… I’m not…”

“You’re not built that way.”

“Maybe I could learn to be? But more than that, he’s just too beautiful! That did nothing but thrill me before, but now I see how it’s all so double-edged! He’ll be traveling and wining and dining with other super-beautiful people; I mean, that’s the definition of the world he’s a part of. Most of the male models are gay, which means he’ll have dozens of opportunities with the female models. Meanwhile, I’ll be watering flowers and working with my mom and a handful of other people, normal people, and it’s… It makes me feel…”

She trailed off, and here we were. Like any competent therapist, I prodded in my most gentle voice: “How does it make you feel, Terri?”

Her lower lip trembled, and sue me—even when expressing emotional pain, I found her mouth sexy as hell.

“I feel weak and ordinary,” she whispered. Gathering herself and sitting straighter, like she needed to counter that feeling with better posture, she continued. “Alexandre holds all the power now. That leaves me… diminished? Like I’m small and ordinary. And I don’t like that at all.”

Further questioning revealed that several of Terri’s friends did not believe that she and Alexandre would last long-term as a couple, whether they got married or not. I had no way of knowing whether this was true, but her distress was certainly real. What she had thought of as a solid relationship had significant cracks in its foundation, and a portion of her confidence had collapsed.

Allowing my eyes to take in her lovely figure and facial structure, and especially the mouth straight out of a lip-gloss commercial… Again, how could a woman this beautiful be experiencing this level of emotional distress about feeling ordinary?

There had to be more here than met the eye. Perhaps it was the change of profession, from model to plant lady. There were probably unconscious tensions that came from working with her mother, too. Whatever it was that had brought her into my office, it was my job to uncover the unspoken or unrecognized realities hiding in the cracks.

But gently, so as not to create any new problems. It often happens that live-wires exist within clients’ psyches, tender places that can destabilize if poked at too insistently. I believed that Terri had an area of psychological material like this, but she also wasn’t being straight with me. It was in her body language that there were instances where she made a conscious decision to avoid telling me something about her relationship with her boyfriend.

It was some sexual detail; I was almost sure of it. At one point, when I asked how compatible she and Alexandre were that way, she quoted the old standby of “irreconcilable differences”, essentially saying they did very well in bed together, except for whatever these differences were.

Ding-ding-ding, the brain of every trained therapist in the world would chime at moments like this. Irreconcilable differences was a legal term, and people relied on language of that nature when there was a truth they wanted to keep hidden.

At a certain point I found myself staring at her mouth far too intensely when she spoke. It wasn’t because of what she was saying or refusing to say; it was the beauty of her lips, pure and simple. I kept picturing them as they might look when I’d finally have her totally relaxed in the immersion state. Or, bad boy that I am, the way they’d look and feel if gently kissing the crown of my penis, right before opening wide to suck me in.

I inhaled deeply, perhaps hoping to calm the tingling of my stiffening dick, but that only reminded me how there was another thing that I found especially appealing about Terri—she always smelled great. I’d remarked on it and she said it was from spending so many hours tending to flowering plants, her skin and hair absorbing the scents all around her.

I had mentioned it again at the beginning of this very session, and she’d laughed, lamenting the fact that smells couldn’t be transmitted over the internet. I didn’t quite understand her point and she clarified, “If guys could only get a whiff of what my hair smells like at the end of every day… Well, who’d need a lengthy dating profile, with all that crap about long walks on the beach?”

“So you went through with what you were talking about last week, creating an online profile?” And I didn’t say it, but the thought was there that a single full-body bikini photo and one close-up of her face would also eliminate any need for written details.

“I did, on two sites. I haven’t told Alexandre about it yet, maybe because I feel a little ridiculous. I mean, there he is working in a field where the entry requirement is that you’re physically gorgeous, while I’m digging in dirt every day and reading online dating qualifications at night, of people who look like most people look.”

I nodded, trying to imagine the boatloads of attention that Terri was going to attract on any hook-up site.

Not really intending for it to happen, I found myself appreciating her overall beauty again in discreet sips. I studied the adorable smattering of pale freckles near her nose, and the slight cleft in her chin that somehow enhanced the sumptuous mouth. Her figure was fine, too, with an especially inviting ass. She had worn jeans to every appointment thus far, and the blue denim was really hugging her thighs this time. It wasn’t that she had gained weight; she had chosen a tighter pair of jeans.

To attract my gaze, even subconsciously? That was probably a stretch, yet it had happened with Rosita Bello. Because of transference, Rosita had wanted me to get horny for her body, weeks before I manipulated her desires through any sexual immersion shenanigans. If Terri had even one ounce of those kinds of feelings…

It was at that moment, ing how that chain of events had gone, that I knew I would misbehave with Terri. Not to the extent that I had with Rosita, but… Or probably not that much.

Clearing my throat, I ventured, “Terri, surely you could also meet men the old fashioned way, not just online. Hook-ups don’t only happen through Fling and Match, after all.”

She shot me a look, eyebrows turned fierce. “Match is for people over fifty! I’m twenty-six!”

There was some real fire in her tone, enough that I put my hands up defensively. Terri laughed, and shifted her positioning in the client’s chair. It seemed that some kind of change had just taken place to the atmosphere in the room, that I might call sexual tension, or sexual presence. Had I just said or done something that had turned her on?

Yes! I could almost hear my hard-on answer. It spoke in the language of blood flow and growing length and girth, absolutely convincing the rest of me that Terri would not leave this office today without me messing with her carnal interior in some as yet undefined way.

It was the perfect time to ask her for a love-life update. She told me that she had gone out on two dinner dates in the past week, with two different men. She didn’t tell me very much about what these men were like or what they did; her focus was on her own emotions, especially her disappointment and reticence about needing to go out on dates to begin with.

“Maybe it was delusional, but I thought I was done with dating. I thought Alexandre and I would get married, maybe have children at some point… Now I’m secretly going on semi-blind dates just to feel like I’m keeping up. Or maybe it’s a lame way of getting back at him, I don’t know. Whatever the reasons it’s all just, you know, hopeless.”

“Hopeless,” I repeated, my eyebrows lifting to point out how absurd that sounded on its face. “You certainly don’t mean that as being undesirable. So what is it that has you feeling hopeless about dating, or men?”

“I know I’m desirable. On my first dinner date, the guy said I’m insanely gorgeous, and the other called me ‘a total knockout’. They were both smitten.”

“So?”

She crossed her arms over her chest and chewed on her lower lip. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought her breasts must be somewhere just shy of the Mira-range in of scale. Which—temptation, temptation—meant they were big enough for me to want to play with.

Her head was slowly shaking when she said, “I know I’m never going to find anyone as gorgeous as Alexandre, but I think I’d be okay with that if… Chemistry, right? Only the guys on those dates were both so, you know… Expected? Nice guys, sweet guys in lucrative professions, which is what I want, I think. But I couldn’t be honest because… First, I didn’t tell them that I have a live-in boyfriend, because how can I on a first date?”

I nodded. Not everyone would feel comfortable getting hooked-up with a woman in a polyamorous relationship. Then again, few women were as attractive as Terri, so she might have plenty of takers regardless.

“And then there are other things that get in the way. Romantic preferences, I guess you’d call them, where getting excited might not be so expected.”

Again, any therapist would know that she was right on the edge of revealing an important truth. “Please say more about these unexpected preferences.”

Terri let out a nervous puppy dog of a laugh. “I’m just… I’m older now than when I used to go out on dates, and I know what I like, okay? That makes getting to know a new man feel… It’s complicated. Or maybe I’m complicated.”

Of course she was complicated; everyone is. She had something important to tell me, only her talking around it and her body language said it wouldn’t happen today, or possible ever. Some kind of secret—a sexual preference or kink, most likely—was lurking beneath that picture-perfect surface, and she was erecting a wall to keep me from knowing about it. I couldn’t know whether this was being done unconsciously or stubbornly, and if I were a normal therapist I might conclude that it could take months of therapy for Terri to feel comfortable enough for us to explore this territory.

But I was miles from being a normal therapist. I had no need to fruitlessly knock on closed doors when I possessed the means to slip over or under any barrier my clients erected, all without them even knowing it.

I had described the immersion technique to Terri in our previous session, being sure to downplay its capabilities by about a thousand percent. That was something I did with every client now—I could see no logical reason why anybody on earth should know how powerful my immersion toolbox was. Terri believed that the technique might help in easing some of her anxiousness when it came to her insecurities concerning Alexandre, and that might now include her “hopeless” feelings about dating. She essentially wanted to feel listened to and soothed, what most people want from a therapist. She had no clue that she had stumbled into the lair of a therapist who could peel away her secrets like an onion, with a lighter touch than even an uned dream.

I found myself mentally undressing her as we both stood, on the way to getting her to the couch. Her tight jeans were a treat, but I already knew I was going to instruct her to dress in much more revealing clothing the next time she came to my office. I also knew I would learn what she was unable or unwilling to divulge about her sexual preferences. Beyond that, whatever else I did would be based on the nature of those hidden truths.

I caught a flash of bare waist when she settled onto the couch, and couldn’t help picturing my head there at her waist, then slipping lower to go down on the woman. Was there such a thing as photogenic model pussy?

The tingling in my pants had become a full hard-on by the time I had her deeply entrenched in the immersion state.With Terri lying there vacant, I placed my nose just inches from her flowing brown hair, inhaling deeply. She had not been exaggerating—the floral scents were lovely, as was picturing how I would breathe in some of that perfumed air if she ever wrapped those lips around my cock.

I came close to sighing out loud as I settled back into my chair. I had made a promise to myself about clients after Rosita, but that felt like so much ancient history. When I’d had Rosita hypnotized on this same couch, my understanding of the true power of immersion hypnosis had been so limited. It was almost like I’d made that promise when I’d been a mere caterpillar, with no conception of the coming transformations that would allow me to take flight.

I came to a decision. Another night with Mira was only five or six hours away, so I needed nothing immediate from Terri. But I was definitely going to misbehave here, and with only thirty-five minutes left before my next client, I needed to move things along.

Playing a strong hunch right off the bat, I asked, “Terri, are you concealing a sexual secret from Michael in your therapy sessions with him?”

A slight licking of her lips before the expected reply. “Yes.”

“Is this a secret fantasy you have, or that you act out?”

It was subtle but her mouth tightened. Some kind of contradiction there, because I’d been clumsy, asking two different things at once.

“Terri, you have a secret fantasy that turns you on. What is the nature of this fantasy?”

I don’t know what I was expecting—perhaps leather or latex, or fantasizing about a girlfriend, or something else fairly generic. What I got, to begin with, was one word: “Super.”

Super? Superman, Superbowls, superintendents?

“Powers,” she said next, like she’d needed a few extra seconds to sum it up. Or, that the resistance had been very strong, even when hypnotized, to own up to it.

My mouth opened to ask another question, but then I closed it. Fifteen minutes earlier, it had felt to me like an erotic light had flickered on when Terri had corrected me about her age, and I had raised my hands defensively. Like her correction was powerful. Like she was powerful, making me back down. And she had lamented feeling weak and ordinary in relation to Alexandre.

“Terri, do you believe that this secret fantasy of yours is a part of the reason that Alexandre has sought out other sexual partners?”

No hesitation. “Yes.”

“It contributed to Alexandre wanting other sexual partners because?”

Left as a wide-open question, she filled the space. “He doesn’t like being handcuffed to the bed. Thinks I’m weird.”

Well, well. Some people have a fetish about bondage, but I didn’t think it was that simple in this case. If I was right, feeling powerful helped Terri to get turned-on, or to get-off. The use of handcuffs was a means to that end; it could be all about domination, which wasn’t uncommon. It could also be about a hell of a lot more. Super, super…

“Terri, describe the perfect version of you in a sexual sense. What would you be like? Whom would you be like?”

“Supergirl,” she said immediately. “Wonder Woman. The Scarlet Witch.”

Female superheroes with superpowers. Just being ultra-powerful, or doing super things in bed?

With just a few more questions I felt like I had a pretty clear understanding of her situation. Terri had been a comic book enthusiast when growing up, and her very first masturbatory sessions had all revolved around these fantasies of being supremely beautiful and powerful. She got the beauty, but the more fantastical elements of her fetish receded into the background as she matured, her expectations conforming to the limitations of the human condition, as happens with all healthy adults. She had gotten many tastes of feeling powerful over the years because of her looks; she knew she could break hearts or have lots of eager lovers if she wanted. And she had felt especially powerful when attracting such a gorgeous and sought-after man into being in a relationship with her, perhaps even being willing to marry her.

Then, the imbalances had seeped in. She was a beautiful former model, but he was still a model and he was perceived as being even more beautiful. Lots of men were attracted to her, but they were nothing compared to quality of the female models—and her own friends—throwing themselves at Alexandre. To help her mother’s business thrive, she worked in a ho-hum garden center, while he was just shy of being a male supermodel.

With a couple of additional questions I learned more. At some point she had seen a Wonder Woman movie where a completely ordinary woman had gained superpowers, and the thrills of Terri’s earlier fantasies had come back to life. This had spurred her into trying to change the equation in bed, by placing Alexandre in an inferior role, taking away his freedom of movement with handcuffs. This change had perversely resulted in Terri feeling weaker, because Alexandre had been turned off and had embraced his own fantasies, of living a life where he had multiple lovers.

I steepled my hands and breathed in her wonderful scent. For a man who’d been dispensing orgasmic bliss like sexual candy, Terri’s fantasies were like an open hangar door that I could drive my voice through. She wanted to be special, enhanced? I could deliver some version of that.

I kept staring at her inspiring mouth, and my imagination roamed. She fantasized about having superpowers and of course that was impossible, but hadn’t I brought Dee’s nipplegasms into existence?

Words that Lucinda had said appeared in my brain—it had either been that she had no gag reflex, or she barely had one.

With that in mind, the words that came out of my mouth didn’t even surprise me. “Terri, you know that you have an exceptionally lovely mouth, with a beautiful smile. Do people often remark about how beautiful your mouth is, how lovely your smile is?”

“Yes.”

“It’s also a very sexy mouth, a supremely desirable mouth. Your lips are amazing, and you’re aware of that, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” she said, licking those lips.

I knew I shouldn’t act upon the idea in my head. I also knew I was already like a plane racing down the runway to take off.

“Terri, this realization, that your mouth is incredibly sexy, is going to hit you this week with more emotional force than ever before. You will wonder why you never fully understood the potentialities of having such a sexy mouth, and you will feel compelled to find out just how sexy your mouth can behave. You know it looks incredibly alluring, but just how potent can it be?”

The tip of her tongue slipped out again, licking lightly at her lower lip.

“Terri, do you sometimes give blow-jobs to Alexandre?”

“Yes.”

“Would you say you’re good at giving blow-jobs?”

A few moments of hesitation. “I think so.”

Fabulous, that ray of hope. “Terri, you need to discover just how sexy your mouth can become, and a question will begin to eat at you—just how insanely good could you be at giving blow-jobs? That will make you need an answer to the next obvious question—just how much cock can you swallow?”

Her lips were slightly open now, and good God were they inviting. Inspired, I pressed on.

“Terri, have you ever tried to give Alexandre or anyone else a deep-throat blow-job?”

Softly, “Twice.”

“And could you?”

“Almost.”

But she had wanted to do it, which was key. “Terri, you said yourself that you’re more mature now than when you dated in the past. You know now that your mouth is your sexiest feature, and you have a burning desire to make it your most talented feature. The limitations of the past belong to the past, because now there is a new and super-talented Terri on the scene, a Terri that time and experience has transformed.”

Her lips opened a bit wider, the corners of her mouth lifting just slightly. My words were pleasing the parts of her that had recently lost confidence.

“Terri, deep inside of you, at the very center of your soul, is the need to become an absolute marvel at giving blow-jobs. You will be consumed with discovering and practicing all that your lips and tongue and cheeks and throat can do to bring pleasure to a penis. You will read about this, and seek out videos or any other instruction on gathering more and more skills. Whenever you go out on dates, this truth lurks in the depths of your being—to be powerful, to be the very best version of Terri that there could ever be, you have to be able to expertly suck and deep-throat any man’s penis.

This does not mean that you will become a wanton sex-maniac addicted to sucking cock—if you don’t find a man attractive, you are free to simply move on, just like any other woman. Most of the men in this world will never know just how much pleasure your mouth can provide. But for the lucky ones, the ones you decide to gift with your incredible talent, you will drive them wild with just how well you can suck a cock.”

Her mouth was moving now, like she was ready to wrap her lips around an imagined dick. It was obviously terrible what I was doing with this client, but that didn’t mean I would stop.

“You will feel compelled to practice your oral skills frequently. However it’s done, whether on actual penises or various stand-ins, what you will discover is that you simply have no gag reflex when you suck a cock, none at all. It might seem for an instant or two that it’s there, but then your throat will relax completely and you can take in more, much more, with no problem at all. Any time you think the gag reflex must be there, it turns out to be a mirage. Gagging or the threat of gagging might have been something that held you back years ago, but no more. You are a freak of nature, Terri, in that when you suck a cock or even practice sucking, a gag reflex is simply not there.”

It was no mirage that the corners of her mouth had lifted even more. Deep down she wanted to be special, and I was giving her that.

“This realization, that you have no gag reflex, will thrill you to the core. It will excite you sexually like nothing ever has, because this is your superpower. You are Terri and you are special, perhaps unique. You are a blow-job phenomenon, a deep-throat savant, with the natural talent and the dedication to develop skills that will have you sucking cock better than anyone on earth.

You have special abilities like you always wished for, and when you use them, your sexual core will become inflamed and you will come powerfully, even super-powerfully. How else could it be, when you discover and then know, deeply and completely, that you are probably the best that’s ever lived when it comes to sucking cocks.”

Her face and neck were flushed, color going to the areas in question. I needed to put on the brakes now—I didn’t want her to wake up way too excited, and we were simply running out of time.

I added a few last instructions, that Terri must return to see me in just one week, and that she would always, always, welcome being placed in the immersion state, no matter the circumstances. I added in the safeguard that she would never even consider that I’d caused her behaviors to change through the use of hypnosis, and that any signs of sexual excitement upon awakening were a positive sign that our sessions were helping her to feel more alive and confidant in the ways that she wanted to feel. Only after all of that did I the suggestions I’d intended to begin with.

“Terri, one last thing, a very important thing. When you come for your appointment with Michael next week, you will feel compelled to dress much sexier, allowing Michael to appreciate the beauty of your body. You will feel compelled to dress in a way that flaunts your legs and breasts. You are beautiful and sexy and you need to make sure that Michael sees that.”

That was everything I wanted for now, and just in time. After easing her back to consciousness, I repeated my now-familiar trick of hiding my erection behind my desk, and acted surprised but ive when Terri asked if I could switch her to weekly sessions, beginning the following week. She didn’t look me in the eyes when she spoke, and that didn’t seem like shyness or evasiveness; it was more like a large part of her attention was elsewhere. Though her mouth was closed I could see her working her upper teeth with her tongue—perhaps there were already tiny hints of the changes to come, tickling inside her mouth and throat and at the back of her brain.

Somehow my dick calmed down enough that I decided to escort her to the outer office, asking Carlotta to fit her in for the same slot the following week. Back in my office, I didn’t ask myself why I had done what I’d just done; if anything, I lamented that I hadn’t had time to go further. I’d merely sketched-in Terri’s immersion suggestions, like a painter in the earliest stages of a longer creative process.

I laced my fingers together and pictured what our next session might be like—I’d see more of her body, and would she exude an entirely different level of confidence? And how would her day-to-day actions unfold? I doubted she’d feel comfortable discussing her sex life when I did see her again. With only a few exceptions, I knew very little about the sex lives of most of my clients, which was as it should be. With Terri, though, I would find out exactly where she was with the changes I’d made and how she felt about them. Without her even knowing, recaps of her sex life would flow like carnal honey right into my ears, straight from those succulent lips.

Basking in the glow of wanton therapy performed masterfully, it struck me how fantastic my life had become, meaning wonderful and bizarre at the same time. In one way it felt fanciful, maybe even absurd, that a woman’s gag reflex could cease to exist just because I told her it would. But earlier in the day I had seen how I could make an injured client’s phantom limb pain disappear, so why not? Erasing her gag reflex might work, or not…

I found myself chuckling lightly, because if it did work, then Terri had it all wrong—in truth, I was the one with the superpower.

I kept my secrets very much to myself as I worked with my next several clients. Underneath the professional demeanor, though, I kept thinking about what I’d done with Terri, weighing the pros versus the obvious cons. She was a client, sure, but wasn’t that a form of real therapy I’d performed? She had come to me with her self-esteem in something like free-fall, tied to sexual frustrations that were related to a secret fetish. I had ferreted out these underlying dynamics at almost lightning speed, and now I was steering her towards manifesting her desires. I even felt a little bit noble in that I hadn’t been immediately tempted to aim Terri’s beautiful mouth at my dick.

Although, might as well be real—there simply hadn’t been enough time for that.

As the minutes ticked on, I kept picturing Terri as she could be in the following weeks, running the family garden center with repeat customers noting how she exuded more confidence than in the past. Going a step further, I imagined her on a dinner-date with some hopeful schmo, feeling secretly triumphant in the knowledge that she could rock the world of any cock she chose to wrap her succulent lips around. Would that sense of empowerment, all by itself, cause her to have more intense orgasms? I’d guided her in that direction as I could in the time we’d had, but I hadn’t fully awakened the intense power of her sexual core.

Maybe next week. I could be more prepared then, even brainstorming some additional directions for her in my secret notebook. Or perhaps this was a case where I should just wing it, going by what she told me in future sessions.

The main thing—and this was huge—was that I had once again crossed an impermissible line at my workplace. Because I already had Mira in my dick’s pocket, this time I couldn’t even pretend that I’d manipulated Terri as I had Rosita, like a practice run towards a specific goal. I knew I should feel ashamed, but I simply wasn’t. If anything, I was pleased that misbehaving was completely risk-free, because once I had someone hypnotized, I could read their territory and do any fucking thing with their wishes or desires, all without leaving any kind of trail.

“No leash,” I said inadvertently, causing the client at hand, a stock-broker having issues with his teen-age sons, to raise his eyebrows in confusion.

I covered the moment with some flimflam about how his sons might react favorably to being given more freedom in certain instances, all the while feeling like my cock might spring from my pants and start shouting for joy. Because I had just been struck with one hell of an important revelation—there was no leash on my inner panther anymore. That symbol of my sexual appetites was free to stalk the landscape and bring down anyone that caught its fancy, and that included any theoretical future clients.

As long as I was clever and careful, there were no rules to constrain me, not when I could shape the way I was perceived. That meant—and why the hell not—that if Terri Thorngood’s gag reflex became ancient history and she felt even a little bit of sexual attraction towards me, I could guide her into dropping me as her therapist. That would make her an ex-client, meaning fair game, and then I could get one—or many—of her super-special blow-jobs for myself.

Right here in this office? I glanced around the room, and then to the door. Carlotta’s presence was the only obstacle to having daytime sex in this space, but blow-jobs performed behind closed doors didn’t have to be loud affairs, and they’d leave no obvious traces.

I might as well face it—hypnotically-charged sex was going to take place in this room again. It was even possible that it would happen rather often.

Should I beat myself up over that? Probably.

But I wouldn’t.

I never really stopped thinking about Terri all the rest of the day, which meant I often had a hard-on during my late sessions. At five-thirty, with my final client lying on the couch and completely unaware, I glanced at my phone when a text arrived, paying full attention when I saw Mira’s name, with a photo. She had her hand between her legs and the accompanying message said: I can hold out playing with myself til 6:45, but not beyond that. Get ur beautiful cock here and save me from myself!

What is a caring person to do when he receives such a plea from a damsel in distress?

It probably looked like I had Thor’s hammer stuffed down the front of my pants when I left the office at six-fifteen. I buzzed straight home and Mira opened the door before I could touch the knob. She had her body sheathed to the neck in a black patterned bodystocking, and nothing else other than heels.

“I am so ready to fuck you!” I said, feeling like I was breathing hot gasses out my nostrils.

Mira’s eyes went wide; she was intrigued by the tone of my voice, and the conspicuous hard-on that had been the first part of me to enter the house. She turned, probably to head in the direction of the stairs, and I came up behind her, cupping her breasts with the bulge in my pants pressing very firmly into her ass.

“Oh God!” she hissed. “Someone has had… oh… a very hard day at work.”

Those were the only words she said before we fucked, because I quickly unzipped and lowered my pants, reveling in the way her overwhelming love of my cock ignited powerful storms inside her. She gasped and dropped to her knees and there was no hesitation, just immediate enthusiastic sucking as her hands wrapped around me.

I was close to spurting a load right there, but I wanted the depths of Mira’s pussy for this first coupling of the night. I pushed her head away and pulled her up the stairs like I was Conan the frickin’ Hypnotarian, with his beyond-Frazetta woman in tow.

At the landing she wanted to suck on my cock again but I moved her through the bedroom door and shoved her onto the bed. She fell upon it spread-legged with her weight upon drawn-back elbows, the sight of that perfect body in the patterned bodystocking further inflaming my balls. A strategic opening between her legs revealed her gorgeous slit, shining with anticipation.

With her gaze fixed upon the pulsating staff she would always need, she demanded, “Give it to me! Give all of it to me!”

In the extremes of her expression I could see that it was the good girl part of Mira’s personality that was like a missing person now, gagged and bound in some shack within her being. When away from me, that side of her could go to dinner parties and book clubs and whatever the fuck else, but it would never have the upper hand again where I was concerned.

She aimed and forced the head of my cock into parting her opening, and we both groaned from that initial . My bulk slid deeper into compliant tunnel walls and I just couldn’t believe how perfect it felt to be inside her. Every time I was in there I firmly believed she had to have the most ideal pussy in the world.

We found a rhythm where my hips moved slowly forward and back, and Mira provided a clockwise gyration that pressed me into all sides of her tunnel with varying intensity. Our friction kept intensifying, Mira gasping and then repeating, “I love your cock, I love your cock!”

My cock loved her right back, deeper and faster with every thrust, and she came before I did, though only by a few seconds. Her mouth had a way of twisting when she let loose, and almost every time her pupils rolled up in her head, a woman gone completely into her interior world where cymbals crashed and all the voices of The Great Orgasmic Choir sang at full volume. Weird language, I know, but that was the way she described it to me ten minutes later.

It felt much the same to me. There is shooting a load, which feels like a piece of heaven on earth all by itself, but also the soul/body epiphany of a woman’s beauty just yanking the cum into high-powered fountain form. I felt electrified. I felt almost dick-crucified. And I felt fucking vindicated, because this was worth all I had done to be here. Every underhanded thought and deed, no matter how manipulative and immoral… They were all just fucking right, because they had brought us to this.