by Archibael

Caution: This Mind Control Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Fa/Fa, Mind Control, Hypnosis, Lesbian, BiSexual, Heterosexual, Oral Sex, Masturbation, .

Desc: Mind Control Sex Story: A bleach-blonde, bubble headed bimbo becomes an intelligent, successful executive.

Jilly was a bleach-blonde, bubble-headed bimbo.

A lot of my girls could barely stand to have her around, but there were a couple of clients who wanted to fuck the dumbest chick possible-- presumably the ones who would feel threatened by a girl with a brain. I usually send Tammy, who fakes idiocy well, but there's something to be said for a natural talent, and one guy in particular favored Jilly nearly exclusively and very frequently. After he was arrested (on completely unrelated charges, I assure you), Jilly's ... well, I guess you could call it her "productivity" ... declined significantly. I was this close to turning her out on the street, though I really thought it was a waste to let someone with her face and figure go to waste on a street corner or in a paltry strip club. It occured to me that, as a last resort, I had the ability to mold her into whatever I wanted to. It wasn't like anything about her would be a great loss if I screwed it up too badly.

Let me explain: most of my girls are fairly open-minded by nature-- you don't get many whores who haven't long ago had their inhibitions worn away by the prospect of dollar signs-- but from time to time they need a little bit of help. For example, Dayna wouldn't take it in the ass, no matter what her clients were offering to have her there, and since no fewer than three of them personally communicated to me that they were planning on going 'cross town to Madame Darlene's dirty little hut unless Dayna delivered the goods, stronger measures had been required.

I called an old employer of mine, Harry Pinchon aka "The Great Master Pinchon", whose "beautiful assistant" I had been in the bad old showbiz days, and asked him for a favor. Not too much later, he showed up as a weekend entertainer for the girls and did his entire stage hypnotist spiel for fun at one of our parties, and I made sure Dayna was volunteered as a subject. Though that night all Harry did was make her bark like a dog and sing showtunes, he embedded a post-hypnotic suggestion that would let him access her later on, at our convenience, and it wasn't long before our Dayna was happily presenting her rear to all comers, unsolicited.

Or there was the time when Peggy almost got killed by that wacko with the rope fetish; she was unable to perform for months afterward, and any time a man touched her she was brought to tears by the memory of nearly being strangled. Since we don't have that many female clients, she was essentially a charity case in my house until Harry helped her to forget the incident.

At any rate, I'd found that hypnosis was a great tool, but though I liked Harry fine, I was sick of paying his ass to help out my girls. For whatever reason, he wouldn't take his fees in pussy, just in cold green, and that was painful in harder times, like after I had to bribe that District Attorney. Now, I'd seen him do his show hundreds of times, and had seen him in the back rooms of countless clubs for "private sessions" (guess what kind of sessions those were?), so it seemed to me I knew how this hypnotism thing went down. If a somewhat goofy-looking middle-aged guy like him could put girls into trance, why couldn't I?

The answer was, of course, that I could, and very soon did. I tried Dayna first, because I knew she was susceptible, and after an hour's "relaxation exercises" she was staring blankly at my ceiling and telling me about being abused by her step-father. The tale was pretty gruesome, and I could see why she used to resist having it up the ass. It moved me enough that I resolved to steer the anal-fetishist guys towards Kandy from now on, though I still reinforced to Dayna that she'd give it up to her current clientele as before. I'm a softie, but I'm also a businesswoman and I didn't want to lose anybody. I have to admit that having her lying there so docile was getting me hot, and it wasn't long before I was fucking her face, all the time giving her instructions on how to improve her technique, and I have to say it paid off brilliantly because, to this day, she's still the choice pussylicker of all my most discerning clients.

But I digress: this is not her story.

I started considering my options for Jilly-- what was missing in my business model? I had the dommes and the subs (or those who could pretend at either), I had the white girls and black girls and Asian girls and the Hispanic girls, and girls who could fake most other nationalities with the proper cosmetics. I had Sally-Lynn who liked pain, Grace the bull-dyke, Diana the "full-figured" lady, and Fifi, whose surgical enhancements defied the imagination. I had tall girls and short girls, and enough wigs and hair dye to manufacture any requested coloration. What was missing that couldn't be otherwise faked?

The answer came to me after Clarence told me it would be his last visit. That happens all the time, by the way. The guy's getting married, or has gone religious, or has gotten through whatever part of his life made him seek my girls out. And a good fifty percent of the time it actually turns out to be true. But not always, and Clarence didn't seem the type to be leaving permanently. I hugged him, wished him luck, and politely asked him why.

"I can't talk to any of these girls, Tess."

I smiled. "That's not exactly their speciality, darling."

He reddened. "I know, but ... before. Afterward. It helps me if there's some kind of connection." I succeeded in not rolling my eyes-- at least outwardly. It's not like I'd never heard this from a client before, but really! A "house" doesn't get its "ill repute" from a lot of jabberring tender-loving care. The bucks roll in when the girls are hot and ready to trot. Aside from that, as long as they're friendly and polite and don't demean their customers (except the ones who want to be demeaned, of course), my girls will be successful, and therefore so will I.

"I understand," I lied. "Well, I hope you find what you're looking for, Clarence."

"I probably won't," he admitted. "But there's always the internet." And with a wave and a sad smile, he was out of there.

That last bit stuck in my craw, for some reason. Actually, for a very obvious reason: I've been in this business for twenty-five years, and the last ten have been touch-and-go because of all the "talent", amateur and otherwise, to be found with a few mouse clicks or a search engine. Don't get me wrong: I have a website myself, detailing all of my girls and their proclivities; it's not been entirely bad. But it's done out of survival more than anything else. I'm old-fashioned, and tend to think fucking for cash should be done discreetly and recommendations passed on by word of mouth. The internet just seems like a good way to get sent to jail when the authorities decide one day to stop turning a blind eye. Regardless, the point is that I'd lost a number of customers over the years because of some bit they found online somewhere, and anytime a customer mentioned it I had to choke down fury. Damned faceless techies who wouldn't know how to fuck if someone handed them a Kama Sutra and a magnifying glass, but who could throw enough suggestive photos and purple prose together to steal my client base.

I strode from the foyer, where Clarence had made his farewells, into my office. I flopped unceremoniously into the leather chair and opened up a web browser and a search engine, half-heartedly paging through the local set of independent "escorts". I don't know what it was-- Clarence's words, or maybe I was just on my game that day, waiting for enlightenment-- but after the seventh or eighth girl promising "a true GFE (girl-friend experience)" from a "college-educated" woman, it suddenly clicked for me. The thing Clarence had been seeking and, more generally, the niche market my girls failed to fill: the brainy, college-girl set.

Now, I'd never gone to college myself. I had stripped for a couple of years right out of high school, done some burlesque theatre (which didn't pay shit), then spent the next ten on my back for Madame Belle's establishment before taking over when the old coot kicked off-- twelve years ago this fall, it was. So my education, while hardly nonexistent (I attended the School of Life, thanksverymuch), was minimal when it came to book-smarts. But I'd done the sexy librarian role-playing enough times (and had my girls do it lots more) to know there's a certain appeal to the smart girl motif. What I hadn't counted on, and what had become clear to me in the last several hours, was that there seemed to be a mostly-untapped clientele out there who wanted it to go a little farther than the glasses and the prim hairstyles-- they actually wanted to discuss poetry or sociolology or ancient Roman history with these broads before fucking them senseless.

And I had to admit that none of my girls was up to the challenge.

Seeing a business opportunity here, I started paging through the independents again, to see if I could find one that looked desperate enough to want to work for me on at least a part-time basis. I'd just jotted down a couple of email addresses and was about to compose a message to these women when Jilly knocked on my doorframe and stepped inside.

"Can I come in?"

My reflex was to be annoyed at this unpleasant (and unprofitable!) presence; after all, she was the precise opposite of what I was currently seeking, and frankly I was planning on housing the new girl, whoever she ended up being, in Jilly's room. Jilly's former room, I already thought of it as. "You're already in, dear. What do you need?"

.... There is more of this story ...

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