The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

On a balmy September morning, in a grey stone hall of residence in one of Cambridge University’s ancient colleges, Zoe Cadwyn-Clarke lay on her bed and sobbed. There was nothing unusual about her dilemma: a young woman had been unfaithful to her boyfriend, and didn’t know whether to tell him or not. The problem was that David, in his kindly and serious way, would insist on knowing exactly why she had betrayed him; and Zoe didn’t know why.

Zoe had gone to visit the Honourable James Braxton-Hicks the previous afternoon. James was only an acquaintance. Zoe didn’t even like him very much. But they had gotten high together, James had persuaded Zoe to do some modelling for him, and then... well, things had gotten out of control. Completely out of control. David, with his patient and dutiful style of lovemaking, would scarcely have recognised Zoe writhing on top of James and screaming like a maniac. What had gotten into her?

Zoe was sure that she loved David—there was no other word for it—and she certainly didn’t love James, whom she regarded with a mix of fascination, distrust, and disgust. But the sex with James had been a revelation. Making love with David was like a pleasant climb up a familiar hill, where, if she was lucky, she might be rewarded with a lovely sunset. Making love with James was like being run over by a locomotive. Several times. They had done it on the sofa, on the floor, and against the wall. Finally, trembling and giddy, she had stumbled home to her own room and collapsed into a stunned sleep. Now, eighteen hours later, she lay in bed and wondered what to do.

Zoe took a deep breath and sat up. This weeping was no way to solve things. She had to decide what to do, make a plan, and stick to it. After all, she thought, it’s not like I betrayed David emotionally. I still love him, even if I made a little mistake with James. And sexual fidelity is such an old-fashioned ideal, Victorian really. (Zoe had never been a prude on principle, only in practice.) David won’t be coming up to Cambridge until Saturday, so I don’t have to decide yet whether to tell him. But—oh God—what if we run into James? Can I trust James to be discreet? No, of course not.

She realised that she would have to see James—confront him—and persuade him to keep quiet about the events of yesterday. And she had better do it as soon as possible, before he bragged about it to any of their mutual friends.

Zoe stood in one corner of the King’s College Quad and looked up at James’ windows. She imagined herself walking boldly into James’ room. She imagined herself speaking firmly to him, demanding that he promise to keep quiet about what had happened between them. But then she imagined James putting his arms around her, caressing her, stroking her back and breasts until she was half-mad. She imagined herself clutching at him, pulling him down on top of her. What on earth was the matter with her?

Zoe squared her shoulders and marched across the Quad to the stairs. It was better to get this over with quickly and get out.

Zoe was about to ring James’ bell when the door opened. It was James, wearing flannel trousers, a baggy white shirt, and a cravat. “Good morning, Zoe. My goodness, you’re up bright and early. I hope you slept well. I know I did.”

“James, I want to speak with you. May I come in?”

“Gracious, it sounds serious. If you want to speak privately, Zoe, we had better remain out here. I have visitors.”

Zoe looked about. The stairwell was empty. She spoke quietly but firmly. “James, what happened yesterday... I want you to know that it was a one-off. It won’t happen again. I never... do that sort of thing.”

To her surprise, James nodded gravely. “I know you don’t, Zoe. Believe me, I am as appalled as you are at my disgusting behaviour yesterday. I don’t know what got into me. I was your host, and I abused my position. I consider it to be entirely my fault. Please forgive me.”

“You’re very gallant, James,” replied Zoe with a touch of annoyance. “But I think I had something to do with it as well. Anyway, let’s put it behind us, shall we? Consign it to the dustbin of history. And never speak about it again. You won’t tell anyone, will you, James? I would be very unhappy if I heard that you did.”

“Zoe, my discretion is assured. I’m quite ashamed of my misbehaviour. No one will know unless you tell them. And now, would you like to come inside? I’m neglecting my guests. Please come and meet them.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, James.”

“Oh, please. You’re quite safe. And if you don’t come in, how will I explain to them why you didn’t stay? Please. Just for a few minutes.”

Reluctantly Zoe followed James into the huge sitting-room. Two of the huge sofas had been moved to face a large flat-screen TV. The two visitors stood up. “Zoe, may I present Kwame Kasavubu and Frederica de la Cruz. Kwame, this is my friend Zoe Cadwyn-Clarke. Kwame is the visiting lecturer in Afro-Asian Music at King’s this year. Frederica, I think you and Zoe already know each other.” Kwame and Zoe shook hands. Zoe saw a tall, thin and wiry black man, about 30, of African rather than Caribbean appearance. His hair was clipped short, and he bore the marks of ritual scarification on his cheeks. He wore rather casual clothes for a lecturer: blue jeans, trainers, and a blue work shirt with the sleeves rolled up. “A great pleasure to meet you, Miss Cadwyn-Clarke,” he said courteously. His voice was extremely deep, with a pleasant lilting accent.

“Hallo, Zo-ee,” said Frederica, with a hundred-watt smile. Zoe knew Frederica slightly, from the Rowing Club. Frederica was a first-year from Buenos Aires, a talented percussionist, studying Music at King’s. People spoke of her as “the next Evelyn Glennie.” Zoe guessed that Kwame was her teacher. Frederica, like many upper-class Argentinians, was of German descent. She was as tall as Zoe and more slender, with very long blonde hair and pale blue eyes. Zoe privately thought that Frederica was the most beautiful girl at Cambridge.

They sat. “We were just about to watch a video I’ve made, Zoe,” said James. “It’s mostly for my own amusement, but I may submit it to the Department. If you’ll bear with me a moment, I’ll put on the sound-track.” James closed the curtains and put a CD on. A complex drum rhythm swept out of several huge speakers. “Kwame was kind enough to record the drums,” said James to Zoe. “Tell me if you think it complements the visuals.”

The video began playing on the flat-screen TV. Images of well known works of art appeared: sliding onto the screen from odd angles, overlapping, fading, flickering, spiralling and pirouetting. Zoe recognised most of the images as Dadaist and New Wave works from the 1930s and 40s. She found the images accessible and amusing, and their motion fascinating, almost hypnotic. The drums thrummed and pounded as the pictures jumped and swirled. She glanced sideways at the others. Kwame, sitting on her right, was grinning with pleasure. His fingers tapped on his thighs, following the drums. On the other sofa James lounged nonchalantly, a sly smile on his lips, looking askance at the screen. Next to him Frederica sat bolt upright, her large luminous eyes wide and her jaw slack, oblivious to everything but the accelerating images.

Zoe continued to focus on the video, trying to understand its structure. It certainly was arresting, but she felt that she was missing something. James reached forward, picked something up, and passed it to Zoe. It was a mirror with a line of powder and a silver tube on it. “Here, my dear, we’ve already indulged, but I think you might like some as well. I’m sure it will enhance your appreciation of my oeuvre.”

Zoe sat forward and stared at the mirror. The cascading images from the TV were reflected in it. She couldn’t make out the colour of the line, but she could guess. There seemed to be an invisible cord drawing her toward the glass. “What a good idea,” she thought. “I feel a little tense. A line will relax me.” Somewhere in her mind a voice was warning and protesting, but it was shut behind a wall of wilfulness and she ignored it. She picked up the tube, put it to her nostril, and inhaled the line. She closed her eyes. Almost at once she felt a rush of physical relaxation and mental clarity. She opened her eyes and looked at the TV. The images seemed focussed, more detailed now. They pinwheeled and bloomed, and she effortlessly followed them. Every transition held some higher meaning. The drums skittered and throbbed, speaking with a message for her personally.

The juxtaposition of images became slower and more fluid. Monochrome photographs of glossy pears and peppers morphed into the abstract nudes of Man Ray, then into Ansel Adams’ sensual desertscapes. The drums became more intimate and light: fingertips caressed taut animal skins. Zoe knew that the four of them were sharing a unique aesthetic experience. A whole new history of 20th Century artistic development was being revealed to them. She felt a kinship with the others, a sense of shared understanding. Zoe sat back, and found that Kwame had extended his arm along the sofa. She sat in the circle of him arm. That was all right. He had helped create this wonderful experience. She knew he was a sensitive and loving person. He looked at her, and she felt that she could see his soul in his beautiful face. Her eyes were wet with happiness.

“Now look at this part,” said James. “Here’s where I’ve begun to introduce my own footage.”

The dominant images were fashion shots of women’s clothing from the middle of the century. Models flaunted Dior dresses and enormous hats. There were glittering catwalk shows and brassy underwear adverts. Then, interspersed with these, came images of half-dressed girls, relaxing prettily. Zoe recognised a few of them from the magazines James had shown her. The transitions seemed so inevitable. Zoe realised that she was seeing the continuity between the physicality and humour of Dada, the crafted textures and shapes of fashion, and the underlying sensuality and beauty of the female form. She thought it was a brilliant thesis. And then, interspersed with the glamour photos, was the moving form of a model in a kimono, posing on a sofa. It was a moment before she recognised herself.

Zoe caught her breath. James had made her a part of his great work. She felt flattered and pleased. The images danced and whirled, and some of them were of her: stretching her legs for the camera, dropping her robe, smiling shyly as she revealed her breasts. Of course, she though, this is the logical conclusion: the disrobing of the model, culminating in her sexual possession. The pace quickened and reached a climax: Zoe saw herself remove her clothes, straddle James, and throw her head back with her face in a rictus of sexual ecstasy. The image rippled and faded. The video ended. The drums continued to pound.

Zoe turned to James to congratulate him, but he wasn’t watching the screen. Frederica was half-reclined in the corner of the sofa, one long leg up on the cushions. James was leaning against her and kissing her deeply, as she stroked his hair and neck. His hands roamed under her clothing. As Zoe watched, James rucked up Frederica’s loose peasant blouse—she was naked underneath except for a small silver crucifix worn on a necklace—and caressed and squeezed her firm white breasts. Frederica sighed with pleasure. “Ahh, si, James, si, mi querido.” Zoe could see why James found Frederica attractive: her breasts were as round and high as any of the girls in the video, and her torso was slender, tapering down to a narrow waist. Zoe could have counted her ribs. Zoe felt a little embarrassed. Should she go, and leave them alone?

James saw her watching. “Hello, Zoe. This is good, isn’t it.”

Zoe’s embarrassment changed to pleasurable acceptance. “Oh yes, James. Very good.”

“Zoe, come sit by Frederica’s feet for a minute. I’d like you to do something for her.”

“Of course, James.” Zoe didn’t question a thing. She knew that she had felt this way before, in this same room, and that the feeling had led to bliss. All she had to do was listen and obey, and everything would be perfect. She sat at the end of the sofa and waited.

“I think that Frederica’s knickers may too tight. Would you have a look at them please? As you can see, she’s busy.”

Zoe pushed Frederica’s full floral-print Laura Ashley skirt up to her waist, to reveal pale-blue cotton knickers. There was a faint line of fine blonde hairs leading from her navel to the lacy waistband. Zoe could see the bulge of Frederica’s sex beneath the light fabric. There was a little patch of moisture. “Well, of course there would be,” she thought. “This is a very sensual experience we’re having.”

“Frederica,” said James, “you’d like Zoe to remove your knickers, wouldn’t you.”

“Ohh, si, por favor, Zo-ee.”

Zoe was happy to help. She thought, “Frederica feels like a sister to me, so of course there’s nothing wrong with helping her undress a bit.” She thoughtfully removed Frederica’s Ecco sandals before she slipped the knickers down Frederica’s smooth tapered thighs.

James continued to caress Frederica’s breasts and torso as he spoke. “I think that Frederica is a nice Catholic virgin, so we are going have to be especially attentive to her, isn’t that right, Frederica?”

“Si... Ahh... Soy virginal...”

“Zoe, I’m sure you’d like to please Frederica. One’s first time is so important, don’t you think? She’ll be more comfortable if it’s done by another woman. Use your tongue.”

For a moment Zoe didn’t understand what James was suggesting, then she gaped in shocked surprise. “I can’t... but... oh... I see.” For a moment it seemed disgusting and perverse, but then a wave of sympathy and clarity swept over her. She realised how kind and thoughtful James was being. Frederica was so dear to them, and he wanted Zoe’s help to initiate Frederica into pleasure. It was the least she could do, for such an innocent and beautiful girl. “Frederica, dear, if you would just open your legs a bit. That’s lovely. Oh, I hope I can do this right.”

Zoe inspected Frederica’s sex. She had never been this close to another woman’s privates before. Frederica had a delicate growth of curling yellow hair, over a dainty rosette of flesh. There was an odour of lemons and of musk. Zoe knelt, held Frederica’s thighs, and pressed the strange vertical lips to her mouth. Frederica gasped and shifted. Zoe thought of what David sometimes did to her with his tongue, and tried the same things. Frederica groaned, raising her hips.

At first Zoe applied herself with more diligence than pleasure. She discovered some things that made Frederica cry out and squeeze Zoe’s head momentarily between her warm thighs. She grew accustomed to the odd taste and feel of Frederica against her lips and tongue and fingers, but her satisfaction was that of a duty well performed. She wished that she knew how to do it better. Then she felt Kwame put his hands on her shoulders, and slowly run them down her back, as he said, “It’s a great pleasure to see you do this, Miss Cadwyn-Clarke. It’s a perfect moment, don’t you think?”

At once Zoe had a vision behind her closed eyelids: she imagined that there was an ideal reality, separate from this one, in which everything was as it should be; in which she was pleasing Frederica with perfect skill, and in which she was the person she longed to be. And suddenly the ideal reality slid toward this one, and superimposed itself on the present, and merged with it. And everything was perfect. She was perfect, just as she was. The Universe was unfolding just as it should. She saw the present moment as a thousand-petalled rose, continually opening, The feel of flesh against her face, Frederica’s moans, Kwame’s smooth hands lifting her skirt and sliding down her knickers—all these were perfect sensations in a perfect moment.

Zoe continued to minister to Frederica, and now it seemed that the pleasure she gave, she also received. A fleshy delight flowed into her mouth and fingers from Frederica’s heaving body. At her other end Kwame caressed and probed, and she felt her flesh growing hot, and taut, and damp. Her mind filled with a red haze of delirium. Frederica ground herself against Zoe’s mouth as Zoe pressed back against Kwame’s stroking fingers, which tapped and rubbed her as though she were one of his drums.

Frederica’s moans took on a more gutteral quality. Glancing up, Zoe saw that James was leaning high over Frederica, who had taken him into her mouth. Frederica sucked and stroked him fervently, as though she were worshipping at the shrine of one of her saints. Her eyes rolled up into her head.

Then Zoe felt Kwame press his hard thighs against hers, and slide himself smoothly deep into her. Her whole body twitched with a lightning jolt of pleasure. Kwame swivelled his hips from side to side, carrying her with him, and then pressed forward and up so hard her knees were lifted off the floor. He rolled her and pressed her and plunged into her again and again, while she tried with cleaving consciousness to continue her service to Frederica.

Zoe felt as though she were part of a single long wave of sensation that washed from one end of the foursome to the other, and then back. Kwame plunged deeper and deeper into her. Zoe transmitted the pleasure he gave her to Frederica, and then to James, and then it returned through her to Kwame. Zoe’s breath grew rapid and ragged. She felt Frederica shudder spasmodically with the new sensations that were raging through her virginal mind. Dimly Zoe wondered if she had been lifted up in a tornado. She sensed a roaring sound, and a prickling heat all over her body, and a pressure and tension that were growing beyond bounds.

A sudden frantic driving energy poured from Kwame into Zoe, as Frederica ground herself hard against Zoe’s mouth. A ribbon of white-hot light seemed to rush from one end of her body to the other. She cried out wildly, and she heard the cries of three other voices. The ribbon of light welded them all into a single organism for an infinite moment. Then the light flickered and subsided, and the bodies of the lovers slowly separated and relaxed into stupefied torpor.

An hour later Zoe was back in her residence, drying her hair after a shower. Her gaze fell across her poster of Ansel Adams’ “Half Dome”. “Oh yes,” she thought, “that was in James’ video.” James’ video. She paused for a moment. She remembered watching the video with Frederica and that black music professor, but... how had it ended? And what had she done after that? She tried to work backwards from the present moment, then she gave up. It didn’t seem to matter very much. She thought about the book she was reading for Art History. She would have to finish it by Friday. David was coming for the weekend.