The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I shift gears, swinging into the fast lane to that slow-ass truck.

“Hey!” Tracey frowns. “Ease up, there, Howie.”

I scowl back at her. I’m so not in the mood for my wife’s backseat driving.

Tracey’s a great life partner, don’t get me wrong. She’s fun, adventurous, likes playing competitive sports, and she’s an avid hockey fan. So right there, the two of us are incredibly compatible. Tracey’s also adventurous in the bedroom, willing to explore my kinkier fantasies. For me, she’s done light bondage, master/slave roleplay, spanking, domination, shit like that. I’m lucky that she married me.

But goddamn—does the woman have to criticize everything I do?

“Seriously,” Tracey says, an edge in her voice now, “slow the fuck down. I just got the lease for the Bently finalized; I don’t need—“

“I’m not gonna dent your precious car,” I snap back.

“I didn’t say you were,” is her taut reply. “But drive reasonably.”

Eh. This argument isn’t worth it. I grunt softly, slide back into the slow lane, and downshift into third gear.

To her credit, Tracey doesn’t gloat over my submission. Instead, she taps her iPhone. “In one mile,” she reminds me, “take the on-ramp to Route 35.”

“Hmmgh,” I acknowledge. “After that, its another half-hour on local roads?”

“About.”

I rub my chin. “Dante rented the same place as last time?”

“No, I told you already,” Tracey reproaches me, as she opens her water bottle. “Dante found a new resort, because—“

“Right, right, right,” I interrupt, ing. “He’s bringing his new wife. Gibby?”

“Giselle,” says Tracey, the disapproval thick in her voice. She swigs water. “Sweet, bubbly, perky-ass, perky-boobs, wonderful, brainless Giselle.”

“You don’t like her,” I snark.

“No,” my wife frowns. “But Dante…” She shrugs. “Dante was always an idiot for a bouncing pair of tits.”

Hoo boy. This weekend might be more dangerous than I’d anticipated.

See, Tracey and Dante met back in their freshman year at Harvard. I don’t really know the full history, but it sounds like they dated, they fucked, and then things went south. They broke up, and the brake-up was toxic. Like, epically horrible.

But then, both Tracey and Dante both were accepted to Harvard’s Business School, and that place is a pressure cooker. The wash-out rate is crazy high. And to survive their classes, Tracey and Dante agreed to a truce and became study buddies. They ed one another, colab’ed on a class project or two… and both graduated with honors. They never dated again, but a weird new friendship built on mutual respect sprouted up between them.

I’ve never fully understood their relationship. Now ten years out of Harvard, they both work on Wall Street. Tracey is a mutual fund director at Schwab’s, and Dante is a brokerage manager at… at… Eh, I forget where. By all rules of dating and business that I know, these two should be sworn enemies. Yet they still get along.

When Tracey and I started seriously dating, she would drag me along on “Dante Weekends.” She and Dante would go in halvsies on some luxury resort up in the Catskills, or the Poconos, or Martha’s Vinyard, or wherever. Tracey would bring me, and Dante would bring his twentysomething girlfriend-of-the-moment, who was usually an OnlyFans bikini model / actress / NFL cheerleader. The first few girls Dante brought were mildly interesting… but after a few years, they all started blurring together. They were always blonde.

“So why did Dante marry this Giselle, anyways?” I ask.

“I have no fucking clue,” replies Tracey, still quite sour.

I think back. “We couldn’t make their wedding because…?”

“You had that bad case of COVID,” my wife reminds me.

Oh yeah.

“Right. That was too bad,” I say.

Tracey shoots me a dark look. “Don’t lie, Howie,” she says. “You were thrilled to break our RSVP. You never even looked at Dante’s and Giselle’s wedding website.”

“But I sent them that deluxe… coffee-making… thingee,” I reply.

“Dante doesn’t even drink coffee,” grumbles Tracey. “This bimbo Giselle has him wrapped about her little finger.”

She points up the road. “There! Exit 134. Route 35.”

“Right,” I say, and click on the turn signal.

The GPS gets a little confused, but eventually Tracey and I find our cabin for the weekend. Its on the western face of McKenzie Mountain, with five acres of unspoiled woodlands all to itself. Of course, Prince Dante doesn’t believe in roughing it, so the cabin has two wings, a tennis court, a heated pool, a hot tub (of course), a firepit, and some kind of state-of-the-art space antennae, so we always have high-speed satellite Internet. This place cost $7,500 to rent for the weekend, and now I see why.

There’s already a gleaming silver BMW recharging in the driveway, and I guess that Dante and the new Mrs. Dante are already here. I park our Bentley next to it and kill the engine.

“That car isn’t Dante’s taste, neither,” Tracey growls. “She’s so not right for him.”

“Let’s just get this weekend over with,” I suggest with resignation. “Okay?”

To my surprise, Tracey gives me a horrible glare. “Get it over with?” she repeats. “You resent coming on these all-expenses-paid weekends, do you?”

Truthfully? Yes.

But I sense that getting into this argument just ain’t worth it. So I just make a lazy gesture with one hand.

“No, I’m just tired,” I fib. “Let’s go inside.”

Of course, the interior of the cabin has amazing décor. I spot Minotti couches, matching armchairs, Italian coffee tables, sunken LED strip lighting, a full bar made from marble and crystal, ghastly modern art on the walls, and a home theatre widescreen TV that must be fifteen feet across, no lie. The shag rugs are thick and somehow tasteful and feel like you’re stepping on marshmallows. There’s an enormous glass wall that looks out onto a spacious deck; beyond the deck, I can see the lake, sparkling under the setting sun. Something by Beyoncee is playing low on the invisible speakers.

“Trace!” a booming voice exclaims.

Ugh.

Dante bounds forward, grinning like the jerkoff he is. He’s balded a little since I last saw him, but the dude’s still got his muscular frame, thin waist, and perfect white teeth. He’s dressed in jeans and a flannel button-down, which I guess is his idea of “rustic.”

Dante and Tracey hug, a quick but tight hug that suggests nothing but plutonic friendship. They laugh at one another.

“Hey Turdbrain,” my wife smirks. “You look as dorky as ever.”

“Yeah, eat me,” Dante replies back good-naturedly. “You’ve lost weight, Trace. The drive up was fine?”

“Yeah, fine.” Tracey shrugs.

Now Dante wears a lean grin. “I wantcha to meet my wife,” he says, almost conspiratorially.

Tracey’s smile is brittle. “Yes. I can’t wait.”

“’Ay, Giselle baby!” Dante bellows, loudly. “Giselle! C’mon out, I wantcha to meet my friends!”

The door to—what I assume is—one of the bedrooms opens, and out steps…

…the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.

Seriously:

The most beautiful woman I have ever seen.

Jesus, how can I describe her? Slender yet curvy, this chick has the ideal fantasy bod. She’s wearing a skintight baby tee (no bra) with low-cut yoga pants, so she might as well be coated in body paint. In this lighting, you can easily see the roundness of her breasts, her graceful hips, her long, powerful legs. Her abdomen is exposed, and yeah—she has a bit of a six-pack going on there. Not so defined like she’s a bodybuilder or something, but you can ire her toned stomach muscles. Her arms are wiry, also with great muscle tone, and there’s this effortless feminine grace in her body language. There’s not a trace of fat on her anywhere. As I gape at her, I’m suddenly wanting to see her from behind, because I’ll bet her ass is fabulous.

This princess of sex blinks at me, and I fall into a lustful trance. She’s got enormous, wet sky-blue eyes, eyes that seem to gleam with a cheerful light all of their own. Her skin is youthful and flawless. She has this cute little nose and ruby red lips that pucker all on their own. Her chocolate brown hair is long, curly, and pulled back into a loose ponytail. The ponytails curves and swishes gently against the back of her swanlike neck.

Huh. Dante’s wife is a brunette. I thought brunettes were invisible to him. This Giselle must be something special.

As I gawk like a horny teenager, I dimly … Giselle is twenty-two. That makes her a full decade younger than Dante, Tracey, or me.

“Giselle baby!” crows Dante, gesturing. “C’mere! I wantcha to meet—“

“Oh yeah,” Giselle murmurs, barely summoning interest. “Your friends.”

The new Mrs. Dante steps across the room, her hips swinging slightly. She moves to her husband, who immediately throws a possessive arm around her shoulders. Dante looks proud enough to burst.

“How nice to meet you,” Tracey says gamely. “I’m Tracey, and this is my husband, Howie.”

I grin like a schmuck.

Giselle flicks an unimpressed eye over my wife, then me. “Hey,” she says blandly. Then a pink iPhone appears in her hand. She starts scrolling.

“Giselle here was once the hostess at Midtown Del Toros’,” Dante brags, playfully swatting his wife on the rump. “She had ’em lined up around the block for hours. Didn’t ya, babe?”

“Mmm, yeah…” is Giselle’s absent response.

Tracey can’t help a judgmental frown. “And what do you do for a living now, Giselle?” she wants to know.

“Yoga instructor,” replies Giselle.

“She’s being modest,” insists Dante. “She’s a top instructor at Hemmency’s.”

I hear Tracey suck in a jealous breath. She’s been trying to get a hip at Hemmency’s for years. Hemmency’s is an upscale, rich person pampering studio on the Upper East Side. From what I’ve heard, only movie stars and the spoiled trophy wives of Wall Street billionaires are granted hip.

But the women who work out at Hemmency’s have absolutely killer bodies. I’ve seen ’em. So that place must be doing something right.

About a half-hour after Tracey and I move into our bedroom, the catering service arrives. Three young women in white uniforms busy themselves in the kitchen, reheating our five-star dinner. The aromas I can smell are pretty amazing; my mouth is watering like crazy! How does Dante find a five-star catering service, way out here in the country??? Seriously.

Soon, our meal is set upon the dining table: roast quail, potatoes, asparagus with light hollandaise, shrimp puffs, plus a really flavorful white wine. Goddamn.

Dante, Giselle, Tracey and I all sit down. The caterers fill our wine tumblers, then vanish. We four eat. The fire in the hearth is roaring away, creating quite the cozy atmosphere.

After a little light banter, the dinner conversation becomes dull. Tracey and Dante only want to talk business. They exchange gossip about their firms. They gab about the merger of companies I’ve never heard of, then chatter about how Firm X was just undervalued on the Exchange by so many millions, and blah blah blah blah. And did you hear that so-and-so and you-know-who and whats-his-face have…?

As I find myself locked out of the conversation, I sneak a long look at Giselle, sitting directly across the table. She’s barely touched her food. She sits in her chair, with her shapely legs somehow tucked beneath her, and her phone back in her hands. She scrolls, sips some wine, scrolls some more, scrolls some more again. As far as I can tell, she’s not paying the slightest bit of attention to the three adults in the room.

I hesitate. The sun’s gone down now, and the amber firelight is painting Giselle in a luscious, loving glow. Even doing something as boring as checking her social feeds, this girl looks fucking incredible. I’m captivated by her sheer beauty. Her expressive eyes. Her graceful figure. Those small shoulders. The way her round breasts push against that baby tee. Even the way she lazily flicks one finger up her phone screen. Yeah…

I wonder what Giselle looks like naked? What it would be like if I could tear off that spandex and bend her naked body over the bed, spanking her, then drilling her with my huge, stiff cock, right from behind? Mmm, yeah. I’d fuck Giselle like a wild beast, slamming her so hard that she’d squeal and wail and call me daddy and beg me to make her wet pussy gush with cum juice yeeeeahhh I’d fuck her so hard she’d moan my name and say-

But then—my heart pounds—Giselle’s eyes dart up and I realize with a start that she’s looking directly at me! Our gazes lock. She doesn’t look away.

Oh shit! Busted! For one horrible second, I wonder: Can she read my mind? Fuck!!!

“Howie?” Tracey is glaring at me.

Oh shit!

I quickly gulp some wine, then say as casually as I dare, “…uh, yeah? Yeah?”

“You were going to tell our hosts about your work?” Tracey prods me.

I was? Eh, maybe I was. Who the fuck knows.

I shift in my chair, but still manage a dopey smile. “Yeah, sure,” I say casually. “So I’m a couples’ therapist. I work with married couples—“

“Howie’s being modest,” Tracey interrupts. “He’s a clinical specialist. He works with really, really exclusive clients. He’s the guy that the billionaire class calls in, when the marriages of their children and grandchildren are falling apart.”

“No shit,” Dante says, but I can tell he’s not really interested. “That’s cool.”

“It is!” insists Tracey, perhaps a bit too loudly. She’s had a lot of wine. “Why, just the other day, Howie was working with—“

“Nobody,” I cut in quickly. “I can’t discuss my patients. Everything is strictly confidential.”

“Uh-huh,” says Dante. The dickhead couldn’t care less about my career, so he’s feigning politeness. For Tracey’s sake. “So, what, you bring these rich people into your office, and then what? You do group feeling sessions?”

“My work can be that,” I say vaguely.

But then… and maybe this is the wine thinking… I add, “But sometimes, I use more abstract methods. Like hypnotism.”

“Hypnosis?” chortles Dante. “Get out. Like, the missus is cheating on her husband, so you hypnotize her to go home and suck his dick?”

“Dante,” Tracey says disapprovingly.

“No,” I reply coolly. “Not at all. Hypnosis is about the spirit/body/mind interjunction.” I hold up my hands, forming a triangle with both index fingers and thumbs. “Those three components—spirit, body, mind—are in competition while in the waking state. But while under hypnosis, they can be brought into alignment. Its marvelous for the therapeutic dialog.”

Dante grunts. “Sure.”

There’s a lull. I wonder if I should dare…

Giselle suddenly volunteers, “I’ve always wanted to get hypnotized.”

Yes!!!

Tracey and Dante stare at her.

“Naw, seriously, babe,” Dante says to his wife. “We’re just bullshitting about what Howie here does at the office. Go back to your phone.”

But Giselle has set the iPhone onto the table. “No, I’m totally being serious,” she insists. “I’ve, like, seen other people get hypnotized. But I’ve never had it done to me.”

“Uh…huh…” drawls Tracey, raising one eyebrow.

Now, suddenly Giselle is filled with stories to share: “So, like, when I was taking my advanced yoga certs,” she relates, “they brought this hypnotist lady into our class to demonstrate how it works, you know? She hypnotized, like, ten of us that day, in class. Not me—I hesitated when she asked for volunteers. But my total bestie, Skylar, she volunteered and she got hypnotized.”

“Did she cluck like a chicken after?” snarked Dante.

“No,” Giselle says, shooting a disapproving look at her husband. “But after, Skylar said she couldn’t believe how, like, clear her brain was. You know? And Sky went on to rock our advanced classes. She was doing Scorpion Handstands and King Pigeons and Astavakrasana by the end of the week. No shit. And it was all totally because of… of…”

Here, Giselle looks frustrated. She gestures at me.

“…because of spirit/body/mind interjunction,” I supply.

“Right!” Giselle chirps. “That.”

Daring much, I smile at Giselle. “Well, if you’re really interested… I’d be happy to hypnotize you.”

“Wait a second,” Tracey mutters. Dante also shifts in his chair, uncomfortably.

But Giselle doesn’t flinch. “Yeah!” she says immediately. “Hypnotize me. Tonight.”

Now, I have to interject here to explain…

…there is no such thing as “spirit/body/mind interjunction.” It’s a bullshit term. I totally made it up.

Yeah, there’s definitely a “mind/body connection” and a “mind/spirit/body connection” and even a “mind/spirit/body interconnection,” and a whole host of other variations like that. But “spirit/body/mind interjunction”??? That’s just malarkey.

Fuck me, “interjunction” isn’t even a real word! My spellchecker hates it.

So why did I bake up a phony psych term like that? Two reasons:

First, I figured a dippy, body-obsessed, yoga twit like Giselle would be intrigued by hypnosis, if I could hang the right-sounding buzzword on it. And that worked! She took the bait. Hook, line, sinker.

But more importantly, I now know the girl is gullible and not that educated. That means when Giselle gets hypnotized, she’ll go under deep.

Really, really, really deep.