The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The last day of an Intro Hypno class was always trying for Emily. As usual, she planned to teach from nine AM to four PM, breaking for lunch, then use the last hour of class time to hand out AHF diplomas. Psychological studies had shown that if you give someone something that is absolutely worthless but do it in a way that suggests they worked hard for it, that person is likely to walk away proud. So Emily always made sure to stage a phony presentation ceremony. It ate up time.

But first, there was the day’s lecture material to plow through. “The most common ailment you will be asked to treat,” Emily thundered into her body mike, “is smoking addiction. Hypnotherapy is most commonly associated with quitting smoking, and so you will get loads of clients who want you to hypnotize them into becoming non-smokers.”

Her students, numb from copying down pages and pages of notes, didn’t so much as look up.

“Luckily, smoking cessation is a relative one-size-fits-all treatment,” the brown-haired instructor continued. “Follow the scripts on page F-11, and you will do just fine.”

She paused.

A funny feeling crept over Emily.

“Of course,” she heard herself say, “the scripts on F-11 have never actually worked on any client, not that I know of. In fact, its likely that AHF’s president, Sean Bayer, just threw them together one night. Probably while drinking beer. Sean likes to drink quite a bit, you know.”

The class hesitated. Quizzical faces looked up from the notebooks.

“But I suppose those scripts could cure a client of their smoking habit,” Emily said, feeling surprisingly free. “I dunno. If anyone ever uses it and it works, let me know, ’ay? It would be a first in AHF history.”

Smiling a little, the beautiful instructor absently pulled out her hairpin, letting her locks tumble down about her small shoulders. “Who am I kidding?” she chortled. “None of you will ever treat clients. How could you? This course teaches you to spell ‘hypnosis,’ but that’s about all. Not one of you will ever work in this business.” She waved one of the course booklets in the air. “Not with this shoddy material, anyway.”

Pure honesty was flowing freely from Emily’s lips. Somewhere, deep within her subconscious, a switch had been thrown, and now her unfiltered opinions gushed from her wicked mind directly to her tongue. She had no sense that any of this was wrong or unusual; in fact, Emily felt positively liberated to prattle on about the slimy philosophy at the core of AHF. She talked on and on, regaling her students with stories of how she’d played them all for suckers, and would be laughing as she deposited their money into the bank.

Her audience sat, stony-faced. Eyes glared. Teeth gnashed. And then, one-by-one, students stuffed their course booklets into their backpacks and stormed out of the lecture hall. Several muttered horrible curses as they departed.

“And then—“ Emily was saying, when suddenly her mind cleared.

What…?

What was she saying? The instructor searched her memory, wondering why she felt disoriented. Almost as if she was following a post-hypnotic suggestion…

“I’m sorry…” Emily smiled, shrugging off her momentary confusion. “Where was… Uh… Oh, yes. Smoking cessation. So when you use the scripts on F-11…”

Her voice caught short. The ballroom before her was almost deserted. A mere twenty students sat there, arms folded, faces twisted in silent rage. More than a few of them were filming her on their smartphones.

“…I’m sorry?” Emily repeated, confused. The last thing she remembered was lecturing to a full class. “What… what is…?”

Rodney Krannitz, her hapless victim from Day One stood. “I think,” he said loudly, “that class is over.”

That night, new Emily-tagged videos began popping up on YouTube. The first was titled “How My Hypnotism Instructor Screwed Me!” Filmed from an iPhone on that last day of class, it featured Emily at the lecturing podium, gayly saying, “Why, did you know AHF advertises that we place 10,000 professional hypnotists a year? Why, that’s utter rubbish! Rubbish! I think we take money from, like, 6,000-some students and we say they are…“—and here she used air quotes—“…‘practicing hypnotists.’ But all they really are are hopeless rubes. Heh.”

The next one was just as damning. Titled “EMILY BUNTLEY, HYPNOTISM CONARTIST,” it captured Emily bragging, “The Dr. Chambers induction script, you know that one? There is no Dr. Chambers, never was. That script is just loads and loads of random phrases which sound keen together. I never use it myself. Never. Its rubbish! You couldn’t use Dr. Chambers to put a baby to sleep.”

And the juiciest video: This one, called “SCAM EXPOSED—Boycott AHF Forever!” show Emily rattling off this whopper: “Did you know that AHF applied for and got nonprofit status from the IRS? What a laugh! We rooked students for, what? …three million plus in net gross last year, and because you all foolishly pay us from personal checks, we can launder those through the Cayman Islands, and who’s none the wiser? We’re just smarter than you are, that’s all.”

As that last clip went viral, the comment section grew more and more venomous. Hashtag #InvestigateAHF was trending like wildfire on Twitter before the sun rose the next morning.

Three months later…

Rodney stood at the corner of S. Trinity and Chihuahua, checking his smartphone once more. As he did, a blue Toyota appeared. Uber’s logo was under the windshield.

“You’re Rodney Krannitz?” the kid behind the wheel called out. “Sorry I’m late, sir. There’s an accident up on Guadalupe. I’m Dennis, Dennis Talmen.”

Rodney shrugged, climbing into the back seat. “You’re actually on time.”

Dennis pulled away from the curb, heading downtown. The radio was blaring local news: “Federal Prosecutors announced multiple indictments against the American Hypnosis Foundation this afternoon, effectively charging the entire organization with—“

“Hey, can you turn that off?” snapped Rodney.

“Sure thing, sir,” Dennis replied, and complied. “You ever met a hypnotist?”

“Oh…” said Rodney, suddenly depressed, “yeah. I was actually in that class which brought those fuckers down.”

“No shit?” the young driver exclaimed, fascinated.

Rodney fell silent.

“It’s a real shame, you know?” remarked Dennis, zipping through a yellow light.

Despite his sour mood, Rodney couldn’t help but ask, “…How so?”

“Well, hypnotism is a healing thing,” Dennis said. “You can use it to help people, do a lot of good. But the only times you hear about it in the news is when people are abusing it to screw one another.”

Rodney huffed. “Sure, kid. You think you’d ever use hypnosis for self-help?”

“Of course I would,” the kid replied airily. “You just need to find someone to help you with a good heart. That’s true for hypnosis. And in life, I guess.”

Surprised, Rodney sat back, and considered those words.