The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Lawrence Biggby unlocked the door with the 2001 A Space Odyssey poster, fighting with all of his might to maintain some semblance of calm and composure. That little minx Trish had clung to him the whole trip up the stairs, and the press of her big tits against his arm had made concentrating on the steps difficult. The girl was hot, so much better looking than those used-up tramps he usually found himself with, there was no contest. Incredibly, he felt his prick try to swell in his pants.

The room itself was pretty much as he had expected. Small, with a single bed along one wall, a desk and a small bookshelf along another, a recessed area with a sitting chair, and a closet. In typical dormitory fashion, the room was a mess, with clothes strewn about haphazardly, and the walls were covered with posters from old science-fiction movies with the odd popular female singer in a come-hither pose mixed in. Lawrence did not know whether to chuckle or to hurl.

He let Trish walk in after him, admiring the sway of her ass in her thin slip as she did. Jesus, is she fine or what? he groaned inside.

He closed the door behind him, locking it.

Trish turned to him, looking expectant. For a moment, he hesitated. This was so different than all the other times, he almost did not know how to proceed. Usually, the girl would ask him what he wanted, all business, hashing out the terms of the deal. Not this time. Trish just stood there, looking at him, waiting.

Waiting for me to tell her what to do, he thought, still unable to fully comprehend what the boy, Scott, had told him. That Trish here would do anything he wanted, anything he asked, anything he ordered, with enthusiasm, eagerness, pleasure. No matter how vile or degrading, this gorgeous tall blonde would submit to whatever desires Lawrence had with nary a complaint.

He took a step towards the blonde—who was taller than he was with her slut heels, something he was used to but which still galled him somewhat—and Trish understood correctly. She leaned into him and kissed him, her lips parting in the same movement. Her kiss was wet, very wet, as she moaned and rubbed herself against him like a pussy in heat. Her hands were on his back, and he self-consciously felt his sweat, pooled underneath his shirt and jacket, clammy against his skin. To distract himself, he ran his own hands down her back, down to her ass, her incredibly tight ass, perky and round and soft and practically naked underneath her slip.

“Jesus Christ, girl,” he panted, breaking the kiss. “How do you get an ass like that?”

Trish smiled, pressing her groin against his hipbone, as if she was trying to rub her clit to get herself off. She did not look him in the eye. “Cheerleading’s great for the body.”

“A cheerleader? You are a bloody cheerleader? Seriously?” He looked her up and down—he had noticed that she was athletic and toned, but would not have guessed cheerleading. It was so... stereotypical. Blonde, hot, with long legs and big tits.

Trish nodded. “I am. Since sophomore year.”

Lawrence pawed her ass some more, unable to get his mind off the feel of her flesh. “A bloody cheerleader! Complete with short skirt and tight top and shaking your ass for the pleasure of those American Football animals, I wager?” He slipped his hands underneath the thin string of what he imagined what her thong, pressing his sweaty palms against the impossibly soft flesh and running a finger up her ass crack.

Trish shivered, and rubbed her crotch harder against his hipbone, practically humping him. “I do have a complete uniform that boys seem to like.”

Lawrence grinned. “I’m sure they do at that. Bloody hell—I’ve never had a real cheerleader! I watch you on the tube sometimes, you know, in your tight little outfits, those little skirts that rise up so easily, exposing your undies to everyone that cares to look. Do you like it when every man has his eyes on you, watching your big titties bounce around when you jump, waiting to get a peek under your skirt, imagining they’re sliding between your legs and shoving their prick into your well-used fuck hole? Do you? Is it true what they say, that all cheerleaders are sluts that gives themselves up to all the players on the team? Is it? Are you a slut? Are you a blonde cheerleading slut?” Lawrence was sweating profusely now, between getting worked up at the image he was conjuring up in his own mind and the sensations of Trish rubbing her body against his, thrusting her big tits into his face. She was so warm, so soft, and the pressure of those big orbs against his skin was so tantalizing that he clenched his hands on her ass, pulling her forward against him and making her gasp.

She ground herself against his crotch, looking at him in the eyes. “I can be as slutty as you want, Lawrence. I can be your blonde cheerleading slut tonight, if that’s your wish. What do you want me to do? What fantasy do you have, Lawrence? What can this slutty blonde cheerleader do to make your dreams come true?”

She still managed to look demure, he thought—wholesome, innocent, despite her words and despite the undulations of her hips against him. If it was an act, it was an incredible act. Maybe what the boy Scott said was true—she was going to obey his every wish? This was turning out so differently from his usual encounters that he was almost lost.

Almost. “How about we start with a nice cheerleader blow job, like you give to your jock friends, huh?”

Trish smiled. “Of course. One slutty blonde cheerleader blow job, coming right up.”

She sank to her knees, making sure her tits rubbed against him the whole way down.

Lawrence groaned. “Too bad you don’t have your uniform with you. I wager you must be sexy on your knees with your slutty cheerleading skirt running up your thighs,” he said, as Trish unfastened his belt and pulled down his pants.

She did not answer. Instead. she took his semi-hard prick in her hand and slurped it into her mouth.

Lawrence clenched his hand in her long blonde hair. She did not give him any time to get used to the sensations, and started bobbing her head up and down forcefully, sucking him in deep and using her tongue and lips to great effect.

The feel of her big tits bumping against his thighs as she sucked, of her hands on the back of his legs traveling up to his butt, of her forehead thumping against his flabby stomach as she bobbed down, all of it served to arouse his passion.

It felt good, amazingly good. And incredibly, he felt his prick getting even harder. The girl was really phenomenal to get such a rise out of him. He did not remember ever being so erect without... without extra stimulation. He was maybe three-quarters stiff, and it was easy for the blonde cheerleader to take his whole prick in her mouth, which made it even better for Lawrence.

Trish did a wondrous job on his prick, giving some of the best head he had ever received. She slurped, drooled, jacked his prick with one hand while the other wandered off to caress his balls or his butt. At some point she pulled down the top of her black slip and her big tits sprang free, and Lawrence freely pawed them, fascinated with the hard nipples.

His initial excitement faded somewhat though, and after five minutes his three-quarters erect prick softened to half mast. Lawrence sighed, his frustration welling up for a moment deep inside him. Maybe tonight would not be so different than usual, then.

Trish had let him slide out of her mouth, slowly jacking him off with a hand, a slightly puzzled look on her face. Lawrence had seen such a look before, many times, and he repressed a wave of frustration. She did not understand. She could not understand. It was okay. It was not her fault. And she was a cheerleader. A real bona fide cheerleader, and she was sucking him off. That had gotten him harder than he ever had without special help. She had done better than could be hoped for.

He took a deep breath. “Get on the bed.”

Trish smiled up at him, still stroking his half-flaccid prick. “You gonna fuck your little cheerleader now?”

The way she said that, her beautiful face framed by her blonde hair, her pink lips, the young unblemished skin, was surreal, and his prick jerked once.

Lawrence watched her stand up and head towards the bed, which had not been made. He stepped out of his pants pooled around his ankles, and took off his jacket, which he folded on the back of the chair after pulling out from the right pocket a small switchblade knife and a pair of handcuffs, those items that he had gone out to grab from his car earlier. He took off his shirt and his tie, laying them over his jacket. Naked, he brushed his fingers along the long line of small parallel scars running up his right forearm like tiny notches on a bedpost. The feeling reassured him. He was loved. Tonight would go well after all.

He watched Trish discard her shoes and pull her slip over her head, leaving her clad in a ridiculously small black thong that matched the slip. Without pausing, she slid the diminutive material down her long legs. Her ass was fantastic, looking as good as it had felt earlier. When she turned around, he saw the thin strip of blonde hair on her pussy, trimmed close. A pristine blonde cheerleader twat, he thought, and his prick jerked once again, although less than before. Time for some help.

While she was climbing on the bed, on all fours, he quietly flicked the switch on the knife and the blade sprung out. Just as quietly, he ran it over his right forearm, adding another parallel line to those already there, this one turning a bright crimson as blood flowed out. He watched with calm, and he could feel his prick respond, hardening almost to full mast. He folded the knife and watched the blonde girl flip onto her back, her legs spread wide. She had not seen him. He had become good at camouflage. The sting in his arm kept sending pleasurable waves throughout his body. He was loved.

Trish was softly running her hands up her thighs all the way to her pussy, looking at him with her mixture of innocence and flirtation. She eyed his erection, now standing up proudly, and smiled, licking her lips.

“How about we play a game?” asked Lawrence.

“A game?”

“Yes, a game. How about, ‘slutty cheerleader has to submit to nasty coach to keep her place in the team?’ ” He lifted his handcuffs, half expecting the girl to bolt.

She did not. Trish shivered—Lawrence saw her pussy pulse from where he was standing—and lifted her arms over her head, joined at the wrist. “Please, sir,” she cooed, in a little girl’s voice, “I really want to be on the team. You can have me if you want. Anytime. Anywhere. I’m a real good fuck.” She shook her hips on the bed, slowly, mimicking coitus.

Lawrence grinned and snapped her wrists together with the handcuffs, running the short chain through the headboard. He reached down to pick up Trish’s thong from the floor, and inhaled deeply. The smell of her arousal hit him hard. He grunted. “You even smell like a slut. You can’t wait to get your little cheerleading twat filled, can’t you?”

Trish undulated on the bed, spreading her legs even wider. Her eyes were on his, hungry. He had never seen a girl react like her before. The girls he paid were utterly unable to convey any real emotion. Not this girl. The sting on his arm throbbed, and his prick followed suit.

“Can’t have you bother your teammates with your cries of pleasure, can we? They’d know you put out to win a spot on the team. Here,” and he presented the thong to her mouth.

Trish knew what he wanted, and did not resist—in fact she opened her mouth wide to accept the material, which Lawrence pushed through deep enough to gag her, but not enough to impede her breathing. The thong was too wispy for that in any case.

He scrambled between her spread legs, his prick softening slightly despite the vision of loveliness before him—a naked blonde cheerleader, legs open wide and exposing a ravishing snatch damp with moisture, tits defying gravity and begging to be pawed, a beautiful face looking at him with desire in her eyes. Switching out the blade of his knife, he nicked his right arm again, the delicious stab of pain quickly followed by another surge of blood which made his prick jerk and rise up at attention.

He looked carefully at Trish—this was usually the time when a girl would panic, and when he would have to take more drastic steps—but she did not react in any way. She looked at the knife but did not show any hint of curiosity, even after he slashed his forearm. She twisted her hip upwards to try to move her snatch closer to his prick, and looked at him with desire still in her eyes. She moaned through the makeshift gag.

With his renewed erection, Lawrence leaned over the blonde cheerleader and as if guided by an invisible hand his prick slid between the girl’s slicked pussy lips and deep into her gash. He sunk in without any difficulty, the girl’s lust sucking him in forcefully. While she could not wrap her arms around him because of the handcuffs, she hooked her legs in the back of his and using them as leverage press him harder inside of her, pushing her groin upwards in counterpoint. She moaned.

Lawrence grunted—he was sinking his prick into molten lava. He was burning. The way she was clasping him down there, it was unlike anything he had ever experienced. He rocked back and forth a few times, overwhelmed by the sensations, and then let himself collapse on top of the cheerleader, his face coming to rest by one of her big fat tits that he grabbed with a hand and squeezed.

He fucked her like that for a few minutes, grasping her tits, licking the side of her face, panting over her, while she twisted and bucked underneath him, trying to rub herself against him as much as possible. She came at some point, Lawrence was pretty sure, again a completely new experience for him. The prostitutes he had lain with before had never come.

Predictably, he felt his erection grow slack, the novelty of having a pliant and hungry twat squeezing his prick fading. He faced up to the blonde cheerleader, his breath ragged, the exertion making his gasp. “I love you,” he said, and she looked at him with an enigmatic look in her eyes, as if she did not understand, or did not care, but was happy he looked happy. “And I will show you how much I love you...” He lifted his knife to her face for her to see. The blade caught the light. Trish looked at the blade without reaction, before returning her eyes to him and pressing her groin against his.

He put the edge of the blade against her cheek, pressing softly, and drew the knife down. A line appeared on her skin, filling in rapidly with deep red blood. Trish gasped, but did not move, except for shifting her hips and trying to drive his prick deeper into her. At the sight of his love for her, Lawrence grew hard again, and pushed into her with all of his weight. He felt her twat squeeze him rhythmically, a steady pulse of pleasure ripping through him.

He pressed himself against the blonde cheerleader, his head beside hers, turning his face towards her untouched cheek. The feel of her big tits against his chest was amazing, the feel of her legs around his waist incredible, the feel of her twat squeezing him extraordinary. She was so beautiful. So lovable. Rutting into her, he raised the knife and softly but firmly ran it down the bridge of her nose, cutting through the soft skin. “I love you,” he whispered. His prick stiffened at the renewed sight of her blood.

Trish did not answer. She was shivering, her body gripped in the pleasure of doing what he wanted her to do. But a tear pearled at the corner of the eye that Lawrence could see.

He raised himself up and looked deep into her eyes. Her body was reacting one way, squirming in pleasure against his, her pelvis thrusting up to rub her clit against the base of his prick deeply embedded into her, but her eyes—her eyes told a different story. Where he had seen love and lust and desire earlier he now saw fear—he saw the same fear that all the girls he had ever loved always displayed, the same terror, the same revulsion. He loved them, and they hated him back. He thought this one would be different—but she was not. Yet her body danced underneath his like she was. It was confusing.

Lawrence followed the blood dripping from the two cuts on the girl’s face, feeling his prick react, and feeling her twat react to his reaction. If he got rid of her look of terror, he could convince himself she was as she was before, willing and happy to receive his love. The thought of gouging out her eyes with the knife in his hand flashed unbidden in his mind, before he rejected it in a wave of disgust. It was a sickening thought—he closed his eyes and took a deep breath to assuage the nausea that had gripped him.

Trish was still staring at him, while her hands caressed his back and her legs urged him to keep on fucking her. With an effort, he slid out of the girl and stood up. He went to the chair and grabbed his tie. Returning to the bed, he watched the blonde cheerleader whimpering on the bed while twisting her hips into another simulacrum of sex. He wrapped his tie around her head as a blindfold.

He climbed back on the bed, and lay down between her legs to resume fucking her. She accepted him back inside her with a loud moan. Without her eyes looking at him in horror, he could bask in the astonishing feelings of mounting a girl that wanted to be mounted, whose body cried for his like his cried for hers—who loved him like he loved her.

For he did love her, and he proved it to her repeatedly, sliding his knife over her face, her chest, her stomach, cutting the beautiful pale skin in crisscrossing patterns. He ran the blade over her breasts, dipping here and there, carving long lines that cried his love. Blood ran freely, pooling underneath her on the bed. He knew what he was doing; the cuts were not deep enough to kill her—he did not want her to die, he did not want anyone to die—but they would scar over like his own on his arms, a lasting tribute to his yearning and his passion.

And throughout, he rutted deep into the blonde cheerleader, his prick pulsing with every incision, his excitement mounting with every kiss of the blade. Trish writhed with his every thrust, trying to pull him in close, pull him in deeper, pull him in harder. She was moaning through her gag, seeking his lips when his face leaned close, trying to kiss him but unable to do so correctly with her thong in her mouth. Her twat was milking him forcefully, as it spasmed and spasmed in a long continuous orgasm.

When Lawrence felt he was approaching his own climax, as the pressure in his groin increased and he knew that he could not prevent his release even if he wanted to, he thrust deeply into the welcoming blonde, slid the blade of his knife over one of her hardened nipples, and pressed. As the fleshy nubbin split open, Trish stiffened and screamed in her gag—whether in pain or ecstasy Lawrence did not know and would not find out, because at that same instant he came hard, emptying himself into the cheerleader that had given him her body so freely. Trish clutched him, pulling her body up against his body, rubbing her face against his face, squeezing his butt cheeks with her hands. Lawrence knew, just knew, in his coital haze, that she would have been giving him a scorching mind-blowing soul kiss at that instant had she been able to.

He collapsed on top of her, his body soaking in her slowly coagulating blood, catching his breath. He looked at her, coming down from her own high, her face smeared with red turning to brown. He wanted to run the knife over her perfect lips, to add to their perfection, but he was too drained for a second round.

“I love you,” he whispered, caressing her forehead and one of the many deep gashes he had drawn there as a token.

Trish shivered at his words, and clutched him close, moaning. She seemed ready for a second round even if he was not.

“It’s true what they say about cheerleaders, then,” he said with a slight chuckle. “They’re insatiable.”

She was still writhing against him when he left the ruined bed. He looked at her, handcuffed to the headboard, blindfolded, gagged, body etched with love lines. She was rubbing her thighs together as though she needed to soothe a deep itch, moaning softly. She was beautiful.

He pulled the covers of the bed out from underneath her, and wrapped them around her, leaving her head clear so she could breathe. Grabbing her discarded black slip from the floor, he wiped his body of the layer of blood he had acquired, then put his clothes back on. He had to forgo the tie, but it was an acceptable loss. He cleaned his knife and pocketed it.

Searching through drawers, he found a tube of instant glue. Looking at the girl wrapped up in bed, still moaning with desire, he felt his prick twitch, and debated whether he did have the energy for a second round. He finally shook his head and left the room.

Locking the door behind him, he squeezed half the tube of glue into the locking mechanism. Stopping by the restroom further down on the floor, he checked himself in the mirror, wiped a stray line of blood from his forehead, and tossed the key to Scott’s room into the toilet before flushing.