Jen has been been hypnotized to get turned on when she’s embarrassed. All she has to do is get through the grocery store with no awkward incidents. That’s totally doable, right?
tags: mind control, nsfw
artwork by jill
“AND ONE. Welcome back, Jen.”
I blink, consciousness returning. My eyes itch and my mouth is dry, which I take as a sign that I’ve sat glassy-eyed and slack-jawed for the past…
“Holy moley, two hours?”
Sam nods, looking very serious. She’s always very serious after a session. “How do you feel?”
“Good.” I roll my tongue over my gums, swallow stale spit. It’s a point of contention between us, how I’d know something had gone wrong. She frets a lot, and my assurance that I would just know has never convinced her.
In this matter, like in most parts of our relationship, we have to trust each other.
Maybe that’s why I find hypnotism so hot?
“Good,” I repeat, with more certainty. “Refreshed, and…” I feel my lip crook into a wry smile. “… a little turned on.”
A little blush colors Sam’s cheeks, and she looks away.
My girlfriend—fiancée, as of two weeks ago, actually—is the absolute best. She’s a fitness trainer, rocks this badass soft butch look, and cooks a mean curry. She’s also a saint for indulging my little kinks.
I mean, she’s not entirely vanilla herself, but apparently she’s not, like, deeply attuned to the erotic nature of hypnotism and mind control? Like, I guess the episode of Xala, Defender of Cosmos where Xala is brainwashed into fighting for the Reglan Pirates didn’t make her… feel things? And I guess she somehow got out of adolescence without realizing that the cute, little mind control Zorps from Lost Planet of System Five! were just the hottest things ever? That maybe everyone should want to be a Zorp’s drooling, mumbling pleasure zombie? What a deprived youth, not skipping ahead to chapter six of The Dragon Knight, the book’s spine falling open to the scene where the knight looks deeply into the dragon’s eyes, and her sword grows so heavy in her hand, and…
Anyways.
Anyways.
When Sam innocently suggested hypnotism as a way of managing my social anxiety, I almost had a heart attack. One, because I was mortally embarrassed that she somehow knew I wanted to be hypnotized. And two, because I absolutely, one-hundred-and-fifty percent did want to be hypnotized.
I mean, we had to start small. Controlled breathing and calming meditation were first. It took Sam a long time to become a passable hypnotist; even I, the most willing subject in the world, may have giggled through an induction or two of hers. It took even more time for me to gather the courage to broach the topic of erotic hypnotism, and longer still for Sam to be convinced.
And that brings us to the present, wherein I have evidently just awoken from my first real session of kinky hypnosis, my head probably filled with tons of sexy triggers.
I am a teeny, tiny, really a lot turned on.
“You didn’t just, I don’t know, tell me to be really turned on by the sight of my sexy fiancée, did you? Because it’s definitely working.”
Sam rubs the back of her neck, blushing even harder. “N-no, nothing like that. You made it super clear that you wanted something a bit outside your comfort zone. I thought real hard and—”
“—and you’re going to say ‘Xanadu,’ and I’ll be compelled to drop to my knees and eat you out? Or maybe—”
She turns to face me, clasping my upper arms between her two strong hands. “Here’s what I would like to do, if it’s okay with you,” she tactfully cuts me off.
I nod, willing to work with the woman of my dreams, who is coincidentally helping my dreams come true.
“We’ve both been sitting on our butts for hours. I’d like to stretch and freshen up. Maybe you could pop out to the store to get some eggs?” I must have looked a little crestfallen, because she flashes a reassuring smile. “When you get back, we’ll see where things take us, and then I can fry up your favorite egg-and-potato scramble?”
I can feel my anxiety start to flare-up, telling me I’m going to mess this up, that I’ve already messed this up, that Sam is trying to find some way out of this, that this hypnosis stuff has scared her and she’s going to break up with me and that I’ve ruined everything forever—
—and then I breathe, and nod, and concentrate on what Sam is actually trying to tell me. Maybe she has to shave, or needs the time to set-up some sort of kinky sex dungeon. This is a consensual experience. I can play it cool for a bit. The implication that I’ll get my favorite breakfast as an after-sex meal certainly helps.
“Hey, that sounds like a plan. You’re right, my butt is really sore.”
“Oh, and one more thing. You’ve, uh, got something between your front teeth.”
I flush, embarrassed that my girlfriend has apparently spent two hours staring at a piece of food stuck between my teeth.
And then I flush because I feel a shiver of arousal run through my whole body.
“Oh no,” I whisper. “Oh no.”
Sam’s smile turns into a shit-eating grin. “Oh yes.”
“You’ve hypnotized me into being turned on by tooth decay.”
Sam’s smile freezes, replaced by confusion. “What? No, that would be weird. And gross.”
“Then what did you—”
“For the next several hours, every time you get embarrassed, you get a bit more aroused.”
I suck in a sharp breath, a wave of vertigo crashing over me.
Sam is back to looking concerned. “Is that okay? I’ve got the trigger word to end the—”
“No, no,” I wave her off, but my clammy skin and pale demeanor must not be very convincing.
I’ve actually spent most of my adult life struggling with social anxiety. In mild situations, I get embarrassed, agitated, fumble my words and retreat from the situation. In more severe cases, I fall absolutely silent, or hyperventilate, or hide in an isolated place and have a complete, crying, shuddering meltdown. That’s actually how Sam and I met—she walked in on me imploding in the fourth-floor bathroom of the library I work at, and helped gently talk a stranger through remembering how to breathe.
I’ve come a long way, thanks to her.
That’s even what she’s saying right now: “I know you’ve come a long way with your anxiety. But I also know you still get mildly embarrassed easily. I thought that it might make a fun little trigger, where you associated something nice with something that’s usually not nice. Reverse aversion therapy, I guess?” She’s furiously blushing now, deeply ashamed. “I’m sorry, I really messed up. The reverse trigger is ‘zyz—”
“No, don’t you dare,” I shout, drowning out the word and startling us both. “I mean, uh, please don’t do that? I’m okay, really. I think… I think your reasoning is good.” I breathe, re-centering myself. “This is going to be good.”
Sam cocks an eyebrow.
“This is going to be great,” I say, really believing it this time. “I’m going to go to the store. Someone will hold the door for me, but I’ll be just too far away to walk at a normal speed, and I’ll not know if I need to run or act casual while they wait for me. But instead of obsessing over it, I’ll get a little turned on. I’m going to get us eggs. The cashier will ask if I’m having a nice day. I’ll clumsily reply ‘thanks, you, too.’ I’ll get a little bit more turned on. And then I’ll come back home and sex up my fiancée.”
By this point, I’m really wet—not from the embarrassment, or the prospect of embarrassment, but because this is pretty much what I’ve wanted for years.
I’m under hypnosis.
My hot girlfriend has hypnotized me.
This is going to be great.
⁂ ⁂ ⁂
FOR THE PURPOSE of full disclosure, I should admit that social anxiety and hypnosis are inextricably linked in my mind.
It took me a long time to learn that what I was feeling was unusual. For most of my childhood, I thought everyone hid in the bathroom to avoid talking to people at lunch, that everyone started to hyperventilate when they were called on in class—in short, that everyone spent every waking moment anxious and paranoid and afraid. It was such a relief to learn that, no, this wasn’t normal or healthy, and that there were things I could do to mitigate these feelings.
But before I learned this, hypnotism was more than an escapist fantasy. For a very long time the only way I could imagine myself as happy is if I were quite literally not myself—on the deck of a Reglan pirate cruiser, my eyes spirals; or wearing a cute little Zorp on my head; or in the thrall of a great dragon, my voice hollow and my mouth agape. Mind control would relieve me of the responsibility of caring. All my stress and trouble and anxiety would be someone else’s stress and trouble and anxiety; they would shoulder that burden while I dutifully, thoughtlessly, happily followed their every whim.
⁂ ⁂ ⁂
I MAKE IT to the store without incident. I mean, I’m feeling a tiny bit randy, but like most people, I am able to compartmentalize “my girlfriend has really turned me on” from “I am driving a two-ton block of steel powered by controlled explosions, I should watch the road.”
I get out of the car, carefully make certain that my lights are off.
Lock the door.
Smile.
It’s all the same steps that, once upon a time, I would have taken compulsively. But now there’s a fun little thrill to it—like I’m a demolitions expert, disarming tiny, horny bombs before they go off. More to the point, I’m in command of the situation. I am not compelled, I am choosing to do these things. My anxiety and embarrassment are on lockdown.
I notice that the store has an automatic sliding glass door; I’m almost disappointed that there won’t be awkward-door-holding in my future.
Then I realize that I never fixed the piece of food Sam warned me about, and I almost gasp at the heat that lances through me.
I check my teeth in the reflection of the storefront window, only to discover my girlfriend was pulling my leg. I begin to chuckle, trailing off when I see the family of four that has been watching me through the glass as I bare my teeth and stick out my tongue.
It’s at this moment that I begin to piece together the full extent of the trouble I may be in.
This next wave of pleasure is more intense than what came before, and I really do gasp. I now understand that Sam has programmed me to feel more and more turned on with each embarrassment I suffer. Is it linear or quadratic? Just how bad is this going to get? Am I going to cum the next time I embarrass myself?
No, I do not cum the next time I embarrass myself; I learn this fact almost immediately upon stepping into the store and plowing into the aforementioned family of four. My apologies are a little strained, and these fine citizens probably think I’m breathless from running, but I’ll take it.
Naturally, the eggs are at the back of the store, near the milk. This is fine, this is totally fine.
My phone bleeps, and I pull it out. A text from Sam. Either she’s forgotten something else we need from the store, or she’s going to try and embarrass me with a cute selfie while I’m shopping. The former is likely, but the latter is a dead certainty. Jen don’t play that game.
I swipe to read her message anyways.
Sam: ok i hypnotized u with 2 more commands
I feel myself teetering on the knife-edge between paralyzing fear and paralyzing horniness, and ultimately decide to concentrate on my partner’s terrible text spelling. When I respond, my virtual voice is far more measured than I feel.
Jen: You don’t say.
Sam: slipped my mind! whoops! 😉
On the one hand, I’m peeved; this feels a little transgressive.
On the other hand, this feels a little transgressive, and that’s hot.
Sam: first
Sam: u HAVE to read any text i send u
Sam: (as soon as safely possible)
Well, it could be worse. Unless…
Sam: that way you gotta look
Sam: even when u KNOW im gonna send u
Sam: THIS
The phone takes a moment to receive the next message, and I bite my lip as the inevitable sexy selfie loads. She’s in our bathroom, flexing, wearing what can only be described as a spool of thread. Everything is technically covered, but she might as well be wearing a sexy spiderweb.
My face heats with a blush even as my hands fly across the keyboard to send a rebuke.
Jen: I can’t wait to pull that string off of you with my TEETH.
Oh fuck oh fuck what did I just send?
Sam: and second u have to text me the fIRST THING u think when u see my pics
Huh.
She got me good.
Jen: That’s… really hot.
Sam: luv u hon! <3 c u soon
I start to come to my senses and realize that I’m in the cereal aisle, sexting my fiancée, flushed and very obviously clenching my thighs together.
My phone bleeps again, and I reflexively look at it. By the time I see it’s from Sam, it’s already too late, I’m opening the message, I’m…
Sam: and we need milk! <3
My mind jumps to milk, and milking, and suckling on Sam’s impressive tits, and I’m glad I’m that Sam’s programming apparently only requires I reply to pictures with honest thoughts.
⁂ ⁂ ⁂
I GET THE EGGS. I get the milk. I’m in line.
I’m still incredibly turned on, and I’m uncomfortably aware of it. But I’m surviving. There’s only one person ahead of me. I can almost taste victory—which, incidentally, is going to taste a lot like Sam.
An older lady gets in line behind me. I pointedly keep my back to her, but after a moment, she tuts and says, “I thought that was you, Jennifer.”
I carefully repress my grimace. “Um, hey, Ms. Soufan. Fancy meeting you here.”
She rolls her eyes. “This is the closest store to our apartment complex, Jennifer,” she sniffs. “And it’s not that fancy.”
“As you say, Ms. Soufan.” I turn back around, hoping that this will be the end of our conversation.
It is not the end of our conversation.
“Management has still not replied to my complaints about my our neighbors,” she continues. I don’t feel particularly enamored with being part of the “our” group, given that I was once the new neighbor she complained about (“the pale new girl keeps strange hours,” management had humorously reported to me, “and I believe she traffics in either drugs or demons”).
The man in front of me is haggling over the sale price of some soon-to-expire meat. The cashier is calling for a price check. I shift from one leg to another. The mundaneness of this situation is beginning to grate; I have places I need to be, people I need to fuck.
“—and furthermore, one of them drives a motorcycle, which is a sure sign of an unwell mind. I cannot understand how the apartment considers that sort of conduct acceptable from its tenants—”
My phone chirps. I’m certain it’s another text from Sam, but since I don’t know it’s from Sam, I am not compelled to answer it. I continue to nod along to Ms. Soufan’s tirade, only to realize she’s trailed off.
“Jennifer, your phone is going off.”
I nervously laugh. “It’s probably just my fiancée.” I make the mistake of meeting Ms. Soufan’s eye.
She is glaring back, unblinking. “It is incredibly rude to not check a message from a loved one,” she rebukes.
I know what is about to happen. I swallow, my mouth dry.
“You should answer your phone,” she orders.
I know I can’t answer my phone, that there is currently an extremely hot, extremely embarrassing selfie downloading, that I will blow a blood vessel the moment I open my phone. But I also know that the truest, most powerful form of mind control in the entire universe is the glaring disapproval of judgmental, grandmother-like figure.
The phone is in my hand. I glance over at the cashier; embroiled in a growing price-check fiasco, he will give me no respite.
I am opening the phone up, desperately trying to brainstorm some safety reason that will preclude me from doing this to myself. There are none.
It’s the single sexiest selfie that I’ve ever received in my life. Sam propped up her phone so that she could use both hands—which is good, because the only thing covering her breasts are her hands, pushing those beautiful mounds together to deepen her cleavage.
I immediately start typing.
Jen: When you mentioned milk earlier, all I could think about was sucking your titties. <3
Gods fucking dammit all to heck. I thought I had dodged that bullet! And a heart? I sent a heart emoji?! My honest subconscious is having a field day.
Sam: i cant wait
Sam: like i REALLY cant wait
Sam: u better hurry home before i start without u
The phone begins to download another photo.
“Jennifer, are you okay?” Ms. Soufan asks. “You look very flushed.”
Between my manic eyes and the sweat beginning to bead on my face, I know that “flushed” is her polite way of saying “I was definitely correct about the drug dealing.”
“I’m fine,” I’m able to croak out, as my eyes are drawn back down to my phone—
Sam’s winking at the camera this time, doing another muscular flex. Only she didn’t put back on her top when she moved her hands.
Ms. Soufan continues to speak, probably expressing some sort of faux concern for my well-being. I’m too busy to listen.
Jen: You had better put back on that top RIGHT NOW because I am not standing in line at the store with milk and eggs being HUMILIATED by shitty-ass Ms. Soufan so that you can strip off your clothes all by yourself.
I hit send. That should be the end of it, but it isn’t. Something primal and raw and demanding is welling up inside of me, and I have to answer. The cashier has wrapped up with the other customer, he’s asking me to put my items on the belt, asking me if I had a good day. And I’m embarrassed, so fucking embarrassed, that I’m ignoring him to ferociously tap on my phone, but I can’t stop now.
Jen: And while you’re at it your going to pull out the Big Purple Beast and lube it the FUCK up because after the day Ive had im going to cum home and BREAK you with it
“I’m completely fine, Ms. Soufan,” I reply to what I assume was a question, then do my best to ignore the rest. My hands are shaking as I try to run the debit card and type in the pin. I nod a thank you to the cashier, unwilling to risk more words.
⁂ ⁂ ⁂
I SOMEHOW MAKE IT HOME WITHOUT INCIDENT.
⁂ ⁂ ⁂
SAM is waiting for me, propped up against a door jamb in her barely-there negligee. I hope it makes her feel sexy, because it no longer does anything for me. I am on autopilot. I’ve pushed past some critical threshold. I have plateaued at Maximum Horny. Everything has humiliated me, nothing can humiliate me again. I’m the horniest I’ve ever been, I can’t possibly get any hornier.
She gasps when she sees me; it’s worth it, to see her damnable cat-got-the-canary expression fade away. “Jen, what the hells happened?!”
In my mind’s eye, I can see how I look to her: my face hard and unreadable, matted hair plastered to sweaty skin, clothes stained and disheveled. I must look like I’ve run a marathon, and my body feels like I am running a marathon.
“Sam,” I begin, very quiet.
She’s pale with concern, both for herself and for me. She must think me very angry.
I’m not.
Much.
“Sam. You made. One. Tiny. Mistake.”
I still command my body with the iron grip I possessed at the store, but I can feel my control beginning to flag. I forget the groceries, and in two large steps I’m up against my future wife, pushing her back against the wall. She’s a head taller than me, but my left hand has found its way up into her short hair, pulling her down and back. My other hand is resting against her chest.
“You underestimated. Just how. Embarrassed. I can get.” This close, she can tell it’s not anger filling my eyes. She might be stronger than me, but I can feel the effect I’m having on her.
“I shouldn’t have sent the selfies,” she whispers. “I’m sorry.”
My right hand drops from her chest to her crotch, swatting away the gossamer cloth to rub across her wet folds. “Your pussy certainly doesn’t feel like it’s sorry.”
“Zy—,” Sam starts.
My hand darts up and, for the second time that day, I stop her from saying the reverse trigger. “No, no, no,” I gently chide, keeping her mouth closed with a hand slick with her own cum. “You’ve wagged your tongue inside my head for too long today. I want your tongue wagging inside of me now, but no more talking. Understood?”
She nods, and I clench her hair a little tighter, making her gasp. “Good. Start with my hand.”
I have no recollection of how we actually get to the bedroom. I know that Sam dutifully cleans my hand. I know that I’m in charge. I know that, despite my earlier text messages, I neither remove her top with my teeth, nor do we use the Big Purple Beast.
I find myself ferociously fucking her face, her head pinned between my thighs and my hands entwined in her hair while I crush my pussy along her chin, her lips, her nose. She’s strong and she has great lung capacity, but at this point, I’m not thinking about her—if she drowns, she drowns.
I’m crying out my third orgasm when I figure out why I didn’t want Sam to use the trigger the second time.
It would be embarrassing if Ms. Soufan adds “sexual deviant” to her next complaint.
I should scream a little louder, just to make certain.
Jill knocked this out of the park; that pic of Sam and Jen is some of the sexiest art she has ever produced, and I’m lucky that it’s illustrating one of my stories! I’m also lucky for my supporters on Patreon, whose financial support made the art commission possible—and who got to read this story two months before everyone else!