The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

1

The axe that Brandine Berringer had been expecting fell on the Friday afternoon before Spring Break began. Dean Crawford called her into his office, and she went dreading the meeting. He greeted her cordially enough, had her sit down, and then took off his glasses and polished them—she supposed so he wouldn’t have to look her in the eye. He was an old man, eighty if he was a day, and God only knew why he lingered on at Hangley Hills State College, where he’d been a fixture for fifty years, they said.

He was nearly bald, with a fringe of white hair and more tufts of white fuzz sprouting from his ears. He smiled at his glasses and said, “I suppose you welcome some down time from your classes, Miss Berringer?”

“I love my classes,” she told him.

He coughed. “Yes, well, about that. I’m afraid that, ah, financial matters and, ah, well, a few other concerns have led us to decide not to renew your contract for next, ah, fall term. We wish you the best . . . .”

The rest of it she tuned out. Damn it! This was the second job she had lost in two years. When she’d come out of college with her Master’s degree, she’d been so full of hope and energy and zest, and now—two strikes against her. At Breedon Community College, her students had complained that she was too hard (meaning she wouldn’t put up with excessive absences, wouldn’t give them a do-over on assignments they’d blown off, and wouldn’t fall for three grandmother’s funerals in one term). Breedon was a private school, though, beholden to the wealthy families of its students. She’d hoped that a state school like Hangley Hills would respect her—but gun-shy, she’d realized too late that she was going in the opposite direction, making the classes too easy, that in fact students were telling each other to take her for English because she was a pushover for a sob story.

She managed not to cry, Dr. Crawford promised in a halfhearted way that she would get letters of reference, and that was that. Back into the murderous job market of academia for her. And Brandine was so upset that she did something absolutely insane. Despite the slim state of her bank account, she made airline reservations to Virginia and the next day flew there to visit her older brother Benjamin, who had a secure job working for the government—in a hush-hush position.

He came to meet her at Reagan National, took her bag, and they walked to his car. Ben was twenty-nine, four years older than Brandine, with long legs, a slim build, and a shock of black hair that matched hers. He wore scruffy jeans and a gray T-shirt, but he drove a Porsche. “What’s the trouble, Sis?” he asked.

And so she unloaded on him. He listened sympathetically as he negotiated the D.C. traffic. Why not? He was successful, a chip-head, a science and computer geek who had earned not one but two doctorates by the age of twenty-two! And straight out of grad school he’d gone into some job with some top-secret organization and evidently made money hand over fist. Not like her, not a two-time loser.

“It’s my fault,” she said miserably. “Nothing in graduate school prepared me for this. I know my stuff. I just don’t know how to teach the students! I mean, how do I inspire them? I can’t even get them to do the damn reading.”

Ben took her to a restaurant called Plume for dinner—she gasped at the menu prices, but he told her to order anything, and when they finished, he left a tip that was as much as three days’ pay for her as an adjunct professor of English. Then he drove her to his apartment—penthouse, naturally, in a deceptively wooded section not far from Springfield—and she unpacked in his guest room. They then relaxed in front of a fireplace, more decorative than functional, over some wine. He said, “I’m sorry you’re having such tough luck, Sis. I wish I could help you.”

“I don’t know any way you could,” she said, sipping Chablis. “Unless you could manage to teach me how to get an interview somewhere that might overlook my work history and hire me.”

“Any leads?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I’ve found about fifteen. Mostly drudge-work, community colleges where I’d teach five sections of freshman comp and barely make a living. I don’t know, maybe I should go into real estate or some damn thing.”

“But you always wanted to teach.”

She looked up with tears standing in her eyes. “Yeah, but I want to teach students who are interested, who are passionate! And I want to teach literature, not how to write a five-paragraph essay!”

After a few moments of silence, Ben asked, “Did you find any really good possibilities?”

Brandine laughed without humor. “Sure. The best. Ever hear of Laurelwood?”

“Private school, isn’t it?”

“Private school,” she said. “Four-year college, high standards, enormously expensive, very small. They limit the size to four hundred students. Their whole teaching staff is only forty-eight. Class sizes are small. Fabulous campus, and the teachers are the best of the best. Even as a junior instructor—they don’t hire adjuncts or temps—I’d earn eight times what I made this year. Fat chance I’ve got of an appointment there.”

“Maybe there’s a way,” Ben said.

When he told Brandine, she wasn’t sure she could believe him. “The project I’m working on,” he explained, “has just four researchers, and we’re the only ones who know about it. It’s all about . . . persuasion. If it works, waterboarding and torture will be relics of the past. Our guys could take the most dedicated enemy soldier or spy and in hours he’d be telling them everything, and he’d be happy to do it. No muss, no fuss. Just persuasion.”

He took her to a room that was set up as sort of a compact computer center and chem lab. “All right,” he said. “This is just for you, and it has to be our secret, understand?”

She nodded.

He said seriously, “If this works, you’ll get in. From then on, you’ll have to knock ’em dead. I can only get you so far, because of the dangers involved.”

“Wait a minute,” she said. “What kind of dangers?”

“Not physical,” he assured her. “But—personality-wise, I suppose. Psychic danger. Look, let me tell you the whole thing. It involves sex.”

“I’m supposed to sleep my way into a job?” she asked, outraged. She was a little tipsy on wine—but not that tipsy! “Hell with that, big brother!”

“No, no,” Ben said. “Hear me out. You know about the limbic system?”

“Something about the brain?” she asked. “I’m the English major here, remember. You’re the nerd!”

Ben laughed. “Okay. The limbic system is part of the brain, yes. It’s where the emotions live. It’s responsible for motivation, long-term memory, and the stronger drives—including sex, which is about the strongest. That’s what we use in this process, see.”

“You’re not getting your hands on my brain,” she said.

“Listen!” he said. “That’s not it at all. What I’m going to do is help you to trigger the limbic system in other people’s brains. We’re gonna use pheromones—you know what those are, don’t you? Powerful but subtle scents that get people excited and aroused and attracted to you—works for both men and women, by the way—because the limbic system is also closely tied to the olfactory nerves and the taste detection—”

“You lost me.”

Ben sighed. “You’ll smell sexy, okay? That’ll get the interviewers interested in you, but they won’t know why. They’d be inclined to do things you ask them to do, but they might resist. Now, that’s the first part. The second part is my own invention, and I’m damn proud of it. It’s a modulator that puts overtones in your voice, not audible really at the conscious level, but they act on a mind that’s already attracted to you and your persuasiveness is amplified, like, a thousand times. You’ll wrap them around your finger, and they’ll do what you want. Want to try?”

Anything. “Yes,” she heard herself whisper.

“Okay,” he said. “First, we have to give you a bath.”

2

He had a tub built for fun. It was big enough for two people, and deep enough so they could, if they wished, both be fully submerged. He filled it with water, constantly checking the temperature with a long-probe electric thermometer. “This is crucial,” he said. “The temperature has to be within a very narrow range—no lower than thirty-five Celsius, no higher than thirty-nine. I’m going to start it at thirty-nine, ’cause you’ll need to soak for a minimum of twenty minutes for it to work. Meanwhile, drink this. All of it.”

Brandine was wearing only a robe, and she felt flushed and confused at being in the bathroom with her brother. He handed her a tall glass, probably 500 milliliters, of a drink that nearly glowed a strange, nearly fluorescent orange. She hesitated—the glass felt hot in her hand. “Drink up!” he said. “It’s a lot cooler than hot coffee!”

She tilted her head back. The drink had a faintly metallic taste, but she chugged it down. “What’s that for?” she asked.

“Part of the treatment,” he told her. “We are going to put a thin coat of a very special material on you, inside and out. It’s actually living material, and once it’s on, it’s on for six to eight months before you begin to shed it, and by then it will have modified your epidermal and mucous tissues so you won’t need the layer of material any longer. But for it to work, you really have to be coated. That’s what the bath is for. It’s also what the neti pot is for—your nasal passages have to be included—and—well, there’s a douche and an enema for later, I’m afraid.”

“You’re not going to—”

“Relax, Sis, you’ll do those yourself. Neti pot is over there, with another glass of the stuff. Use it all, and pour slowly.”

Ugh. She had used a neti pot before, when she’d had a bad head cold, but it was disgusting. Still—She tilted her head over the sink and slowly poured the liquid into one nostril, letting it run through and out of her other one. Then she changed until it was all gone. She was beginning to feel a kind of warmth inside, as if the stuff were working somehow, like a good wine, giving her a glow.

When the tub was full, Benjamin used a kitchen ladle to stir in a beaker of orange powder, and the water almost instantly turned a warm golden color and took on that eerie glow. He stood up. “Your bath is ready, my lady. I’m going to leave a trickle of hot water on to maintain the temp. Here.” He handed her a couple of drinking straws.

“For what?” she asked.

“To breathe through. Try to keep yourself completely submerged. I’ll knock when your time’s up. And, uh, Sis—we’ve only partly tested this, but—well, I’ll just say it. Keep your, uh, thighs spread, and your—yourself kind of wide open, all right? That will help.”

He left. She sniffed the tub, curiously—it didn’t smell of anything in particular, just a very faint whiff of honeysuckle—and she climbed into the tub, sank with some difficulty—the human body is naturally buoyant—and with her face turned up and her black hair afloat, she breathed through the straws, feeling like a complete idiot.

The water felt . . . nice. Hot, but not unbearable, more pleasant than anything else. Like it was full of tiny little bubbles, as though she were immersed in carbonated water . . . but with a definite texture to it, too, rather thick. And the sensation on her skin was . . . wonderful. Prickly and tingly. And down there, with her legs spread, she began to feel, mm, well, turned-on. Maybe there was something to this, after all, she thought. She breathed through the straws in her mouth and felt better and better. Mm, drifting and tingling . . . if it only worked. Maybe Ben was not such a nerd after all . . . God, her nipples were stiffening, and her clit throbbed! If she touched it, she’d cum like crazy. Mm . . .

After what seemed like ages, a hand reached down and shook her shoulder. She surfaced, gasping and blinking. “Ben!”

“You didn’t hear me knocking!” he said, sitting by the tub with his eyes averted. He was thoroughly drying his hand with a small towel. “It’s been more than twenty minutes, and the water’s cooled to thirty-five. Time to get out, Sis. I’ll go—”

“No, that’s all right,” she said. “Heck, we’ve seen each other naked before now. Remember when we used to skinny-dip at the river?”

“Yeah,” he said thickly. “When I was ten and you were six! This is different. God, I’m getting your scent—it’s working on me!” He hit a lever, and the tub began to drain.

Brandine climbed out dripping and reached for a thick towel, still turned all the way on, her pussy wet and hot. “You mean you feel kinda horny?” she asked playfully. “So do I!”

“That’s the echo effect,” Ben told her.

She lingered with the soft towel on her breasts, savoring the exquisite sensitivity of her nipples, something new and sexy. She shivered and realized she hadn’t been listening. “Come again?”

“Echo effect,” Ben said shortly. “You’re not immune to the stuff. Nobody is. So it acts on you, too. That’s good, because when you get, uh, horny, that amplifies the pheromones. My God, I’ve got an erection!”

“Let me see,” she said eagerly. My God, he’s my brother! But—a cock’s a cock.

“Are you nuts?” he asked. He stood up to go, but she embraced him from behind, flattening her breasts against his back, clasping him against her. He was just a little taller than she was. She leaned forward, licked his ear, and whispered, “I’m gonna need some help with the enema and the douche.”

“Brandi—”

“Help me out,” she said. “This one time.”

What could he say?

They did the enema first, with her lying face-down in the tub. He lubed her ass with some kind of slick jelly—she squirmed and tried to capture his rubber-gloved finger, but he was too fast for her—and then he plugged her asshole and began to squeeze the enema bag. Brandine writhed at the odd sensation of the fluid invading her, flooding her. It sizzled, it tickled, it coated her whole insides, or so she thought. She laughed and made Ban wait while she sat on the toilet and expelled the golden liquid. Then the douche. It was about the same amount she had drunk. This time she lay on her back, knees bent, feet on the bottom of the tub, back arched, ass elevated.

“Get me ready,” she said in a breathy voice.

He did, dipping his fingers in the gel and really lubing her up—not that she needed it, she was so wet—and she quivered and writhed and came almost the second he brushed her clit. “You’re my sister,” he complained.

“That’s all right, Ben,” she said, shivering in anticipation. “Do it. Do it now!”

And the nozzle went into her like a tiny cock, and the wonderful liquid flooded in. “Ahhh!” She came again, and then a third time.

“Don’t squirt it out!” Ben said, dismayed. “Try to keep it in for five minutes. I’ll time you.”

She managed to hold the rest in until he gave her the word, then she squatted and expelled it in the tub. “I feel soooo good,” she purred, stepping out of the tub. She caught sight of herself in the mirror and gasped. “My skin!”

Brandine was naturally a pale girl, but the vision in the mirror was a honey-colored beauty, full, soft round breasts, impudently jutting nipples, so pretty! She ran her palms over her breasts and her knees went weak at the throbbing of her nipples, larger, more erect, and more sensitive than they had ever been. “Look at these!” She cradled her breasts—were they bigger, bouncier?—with her hands and held them up for Ben’s inspection.

“Get your robe on,” Ben said harshly. “I think this has gone far enough.”

“Really?” she asked. She beat him to the door and stood with her back against it. “Ben, Ben, oh, thank you!” She threw her arms around his neck and pulled him in for a kiss, opening her mouth, giving him tongue. He struggled for a moment, then gave in and kissed her back, hungrily, eagerly. She slipped her right hand down and caressed the taut bulge in his khakis. “Let’s get more comfortable,” she purred.

They made it only as far as the living room. Then she pulled his head down and he sucked her nipples, making them swell more and more, lewd and jutting, hard and taut. “My God, what’s it done to me?” she groaned as an orgasm hit her, just from his suckling her nipples.

“Increased your sensitivity,” Ben gasped in a hoarse croak. “Brandi, this is wrong—”

She had dropped to her knees and tore open his belt, his khakis, and shucked them down. His cock, straining and erect, bobbed up and she circled it with her fingers. The ridged shaft bulged in her grip, throbbed. It was big! Mischievously, she bent forward and kissed the purple tip, just a little friendly kiss. She tilted her head and looked up at him. “Yum. I’ve never eaten a guy before. Nice, kinda salty.”

“Sis . . .” he begged.

“You’ll love this,” she promised. She began to lick his glans, teasing, probing with her tongue. “Mmmmm.”

“I can’t believe—damn! Sis!”

“Shut up,” she said, her breath heated with his growing desire. She mouth-fucked him, and his hips began to move, responding. She eased off, stroking his saliva-slick cock, and said, “My pussy is so wet! Go down on me.”

She lay back and he knelt and bent forward as she lifted her hips off the rug. “Sis—you smell so damn—you—”

He licked tentatively at her slit, then enthusiastically, his hot tongue parting the folds, lushing upward. She threw her head back and twitched with one more delicious orgasm. “Oh, God,” she moaned. “You’re so good! Yeah—suck my clit, baby!”

He took it between his lips and teased and polished it with her tongue, and she yelped as another orgasm hit her. Her clit was more sensitive too! “I can’t wait!” she said. “Fuck me!”

This time he didn’t even object, but just came up, his tongue tracing a hot line from pubis to the delectable valley between her breasts, from there up her neck, tracing the madly-throbbing pulse, to her lips—and his cock glided into her easily, naturally, and he began to pump.

She fucked him hard, wishing to feel even more, wishing that her pussy was tighter—and then, to her shock, she felt his cock growing inside her—no, her pussy was tightening its grip, just as she’d wished! Somehow she was controlling it—

“Let me on top,” she gasped, and they rolled over, joined, and she straddled him, pumped him, and clasped him, slipped up and down on his shaft, savoring the sensations. His eyes were closed and his mouth locked in a grimace of pleasure and shame. She chuckled and ran her palms over her breasts. I want my nips to be stiffer. Even bigger. More sensitive.

She repeated it like a mantra—and she thought they responded. They felt stiffer, and they looked a bit larger—didn’t they? “Ben,” she gasped, “look at my nipples. You like ’em?”

He opened his eyes. “Oh, yeah!”

She lay down and cradled his head. “Suck them while you fuck me!”

He had to writhe a little, but he got his lips on one and sucked hard, and—oh, my God!—the best yet! “Cum inside me!” she yelled as her whole body shivered in orgasm, and immediately she felt the hot jets of his cum, one, two, three, four spasms, and he cried out in release.

She collapsed on top of him, hugging him, kissing him, thrusting her tongue deep into his mouth, and she kept thinking, I fucked my big brother! I fucked my big brother! And . . . . I LIKED it!

3

Ben had liked it, too. He seemed hypnotized, obedient to her when she insisted, though he did try to resist her, scolding her, telling her the next morning at breakfast, “Brandi, that was wrong!”

“But it was so nice,” she insisted. They had slept in the same bed together, naked, without further fucking—both of them were exhausted. “Anyway, what’s next?”

“I don’t think I want to go through with this,” Ben complained, sipping coffee. “You’d just take advantage.”

“No, I wouldn’t!”

“Brandi—”

She tested her new power: “Ben, you’ll stop this nonsense and go ahead with the next step.”

“All right,” he said mildly.

The next step was to put a special piece of jewelry on Brandine: a neck band that encircled her throat. It looked like a narrow band of bright silver, and it clasped so that it was immediately below her larynx. However, the metal, whatever it was, felt amazingly flexible and comfortable. Ben explained that it was electrically powered, but without batteries. “This is my invention,” he said. “The human skin has electrical properties, and body heat will generate some power. It doesn’t use much—very sophisticated. When you speak, it’ll generate low-frequency pulses that will make any strong order from you almost impossible to resist. If the person you’re talking to has had a whiff of the pheromones, just a suggestion’s enough.”

“How do I take it off?” she asked, because Ben had somehow sealed it in the back.

“You don’t, not ever,” Ben said. “It’s completely waterproof. If it wears out and fails, it’ll pop open itself, but my projections are that it’s good for years. Decades, probably.”

“How do I turn it on?” she asked, running a finger over the cool surface.

“It’s always on.”

Hmm. She said, “Ben, tell me the whole truth about this process.”

And, obediently, he did.

She learned that the stuff she had drunk—and had squirted into her orifices—was literally a second skin, artificial cells that melded with her own and produced the pheromones that had worked so well on Ben. They also, to a degree, let her modify her own body, jacking up sensitivity, even making breasts and nipples and clit bigger and increasing the flow of her lubricating pussy juices—which were laced with the pheromones. He said, “You made me eat you out. That’s the strongest of all—anyone who does that will have to do what you say.”

“Then why do I need this necklet?”

“The person will obey you just from the influence of the pheromones, but mentally he might still resist you. The subvocal amplifier changes his mind and makes him go along willingly with everything you want.”

“Then why do I need the second skin?”

“The amplifier won’t work unless the person already feels an attraction to you. It won’t work on the phone, for example, because the pheromones aren’t transmitted by phone.”

Well, duh.

“How long does the second skin last?” she asked.

“Months, six to eight. The cells can’t regenerate, so gradually they die off.”

“But you’ll give me more of the stuff, right?”

“Your own cells will have modified by then. You won’t need any more.”

“And I’ll be just as . . . persuasive?”

“Well, no,” he said. “The effect will fall off by fifty or sixty per cent. There’s one other way, but I won’t tell you about that.”

She grinned. “Wrong answer, bro.”

More questioning. It turned out that Ben’s colleague Dr. James Gerrond, a biochemist and specialist in genetic engineering, had a more permanent version of the artificial skin, a self-reproducing one that would produce pheromones at full force forever—and allow more changes to her body, if she wished—but it had not been tested on human subjects. “Will it hurt me if I try it?” she asked.

Ben said, “No. It would ramp up the effects, though. We don’t think we should use it. A person with that much persuasiveness could dominate the world.”

Well, hell, she didn’t want to rule the world. She had her sights set on Laurelwood College.

It was easy to order Ben to forget what had happened between them, and to all appearances he did. It was easy to get Ben to take her to work with him—she didn’t have a security clearance, but a short interview with a guard and a security supervisor who both swayed under the influence of the pheromones and the necklet netted her a pass that took care of that—and when she met Dr. Gerrond, a fiftyish, heavy guy, he warmed to her right away. She sent Ben on his way, chatted with Dr. Gerrond, and soon was perched on the edge of his desk while he knelt and licked her pussy. He wasn’t very good, but she instructed him in technique and he obeyed and got much better. From there it was an easy step to the other men in the project and then to their chief supervisor and the head of security for the whole outfit.

It ended as Brandine wanted: They would send supplies to Ben, who would forward them to her. They would all forget immediately what they had done. The project would be very promising and funding would go on and even be increased, but the goal would remain just barely out of reach until she told them when. And, oh, yes, all the security images and recordings for that day would be accidentally erased.

That was the work of three days altogether, and Brandine had to admit she had never been so sexed-up. Her pussy certainly was well-licked! Even the one gay guy had given in at last and she left him with the suggestion that from now on he’d be bisexual, since he had quite a technique and she thought it would be nice to share it with other girls.

Every night she slept with Ben—she had learned that the second skin was a perfect contraceptive, though if she’d allowed it to wear off that effect would be lost. It also was impervious to disease organisms.

So she fucked Ben every night, and every morning she had him forget that. On Thursday she bathed in the stronger version of the stuff (she had half a suitcase full of the packets of the normal version now) and had Ben again help with the more intimate applications. She emerged even more golden, a honey-colored goddess. Dr. Gerrond had told her that both versions of the stuff would work on men as well as women. Now acquainted with its lovely side effects—her nipples were always erect now, and exquisitely sensitive, as was her clit—she coated Ben’s dick with the permanent stuff and suggested to him it was going to grow in girth and length until it would be a most impressive member. “If you get lonely,” she whispered in his ear as she frigged him, “just get a little worked up and smear some precum behind your ears and—” what the hell, it tasted nice—“on your lips and go and find the prettiest girl you can and nail her.”

On her last day, she asked Ben if he could lend her some money—he was rolling in it, as it turned out—and he didn’t, but he gave her five thousand. That was enough, she thought, to set the ball rolling. Or it would be.

4

The problem was that Dean Crawford was so damn old the pheromones had no perceptible effect on him and so the infrasound necklet didn’t either. And she certainly didn’t want this man nibbling on her clitty. The very idea was disgusting.

However.

The deans at Hangley Hills reported to the Provost, and the Provost was young, well, relatively—maybe late thirties or early forties—and therefore a possibility. But one problem loomed: The Provost was a woman.

She was Dr. Leonora Fletcher, trim and well-kept and respected, with a reputation for being rather frosty and aloof in her dealings with others. As soon as class was back in session after Spring Break, Brandine asked for an appointment with Dr. Fletcher, and the secretary arranged for one the following Wednesday afternoon, at a time when Brandine didn’t have classes.

As for the classes . . . . Her first was an eight o’clock English Comp 1, a wretched class that no senior instructor ever wanted to teach. Everyone at Hangley Hills had to take it, most hated it, and few even tried to do more than get a C, though they all would then bitch about not having an A. At 7:50, Brandine was in her office, panties off, fingers working at her pussy, getting right in there, coating themselves with juice. She finished off by just touching her newly-amplified clit, and she came with a gasp and a pleased sigh. At 7:59 she walked to her class. The students slumped at their desks, some with their heads down, others chattering on their phones, others yakking to each other, one even eating a breakfast burrito—against the rules, of course, but students did that all the time in morning classes.

Instead of going to her desk and calling the roll, Brandine strolled up and down the aisles between the desks. She made sure to wave her fingers near the students, even gently touching the cheeks of those with their heads down. The classroom hubbub evened out to a low murmur. Brandine counted. Five not here yet—at least three, and maybe all of them, would come in late. She’d deal with them later. Right now she went to the teacher’s desk and faced the classroom. “All right,” she said. “You’re back from break. Things are going to be different from now on. You don’t know why, but you want to do your best in this class. You’re going to do all the reading, and you know what? You’re going to like it. You’ll find it easy to remember everything. In fact, you’re going to like it so much that you’ll go back and catch up on all the writing you’ve missed.”

Two students came slinking in. She said to them, “Don’t take a seat. Wait for me just outside in the hall.” They gave each other an alarmed look, but stepped back out.

To the others, Brandine said, “You’re going to do your best. When you get a graded paper back, you’re going to learn from your mistakes and never repeat them again. You will listen to what I say, remember it, and apply it. And you’re going to be interested in class, enthusiastic about it, and tell everyone what a great teacher I am. Now if you haven’t read the assignment, take out your books and read Chapter 29. If you don’t have a book, team up with someone. I’ll be back in a minute.”

She went into the hall. Christie Karlson, Mason Thewlett, and Marty Milneer, all tardies, waited for her. The excuses started immediately, but one by one Brandine put her finger on their lips, waiting long enough for them to inhale, and then gave them the new order of things. When they came in, they immediately began to read. To everyone, Brandine said, “You can read five times faster than you used to. And you’ll remember it all.” Pages began to flip.

She settled in. That was her best day ever as a teacher.

The next day she did the same for her Tuesday-Thursday classes, with the same results. Wednesday her classes had a writing assignment, which they went at with dedication and concentration, silently and happily. That afternoon at two-thirty, Brandine walked to Dr. Fletcher’s office in the Administration Building. She was a little scared, but so far all the girls in her class seemed to be under her sway, just as much as the boys were.

Dr. Fletcher sat behind her gigantic desk and Brandine slipped into the visitor’s chair, hoping the pheromones were reaching the Provost. “Miss Berringer,” Dr. Fletcher began briskly, “I know that you’re upset about being let go. However, this is the academic life today. There are few guarantees. Even if you had a longer track record, I’m afraid we couldn’t agree to keep you on.”

Dr. Fletcher was attractive enough: good figure for her age, neat brown hair done in a bun, a pretty face, big horn-rimmed glasses that emphasized her brown eyes—but Brandine wasn’t into women, of course. And the pheromones didn’t seem to be reaching the Provost. Brandine said humbly, “I understand that, Dr. Fletcher. I accept my dismissal—”

“Not dismissal,” Dr. Fletcher said briskly. “Non-renewal of contract. That carries much less of a stigma, Miss Berringer, as you’ll discover. Institutions all over the country are having to cut staff and faculty.”

“Yes, but I don’t want to talk about that,” Brandine said. “It’s private, really.” She glanced at the open door, got up from her chair, and went around the edge of the desk. Dr. Fletcher looked surprised, then irritated.

“I’m not a counselor—” she began.

Brandine reached out and caressed her cheek, bringing her fingers around and to the older woman’s lips. At first Dr. Fletcher froze, but then her brown eyes turned dreamy. “This is private,” Brandine said firmly. “You will tell your secretary to hold all your calls. And lock the door.”

“Of course,” Dr. Fletcher said, her breath hot on Brandine’s fingers.

They wound up stripped and on the carpet. Dr. Fletcher—“May I call you Leonora?” “Oh, yes! Yes, please!”—was so good at what she did that Brandine wanted to experiment, too. She’d never eaten pussy before. She was on top, Leonora’s tongue eager in her own slit, and she at first nibbled and licked experimentally, but Leonora’s folds were so tender, so wet, and so responsive, that soon they were going at it with abandon. She felt Leonora tremble with a series of orgasms, four at least, and she had even more herself. Then, their lips and chins glazed, they broke apart at last and kissed and caressed each other’s breasts.

“I love your pretty nipples!” Leonora said, and she sucked them in turn, a bonus of two more orgasms for Brandine.

After twenty minutes, though, Brandine and the Provost got dressed again. She told the Provost, “I want a parting bonus, Leonora. I think the college should pay me a full year’s salary on top of what I’ve earned.”

“I’ll see to it, darling,” Leonora said. She had suddenly developed a host of affectionate terms.

“Thank you, Leonora. And I’ll want a really good letter of recommendation from you, of course.”

“Of course, lover,” Leonora said, licking her lips lewdly.

“Now,” she said. “Tell me of the best way I can meet the people from Laurelwood College who will be hiring new teachers.”

Leonora sat back in her chair, lost in thought—and frigging herself with two fingers slipped inside her skirt and down her panties. Brandine made a mental note to leave her with a suggestion that she’d get her thrills privately, not publicly. It was the least she could do.

By the time Brandine left a very happy, but forgetful, Provost, she had what she needed. With Ben’s money and her coming bonus, she thought, she just might be able to swing it after all. She picked up her grading at her office, drove back to her apartment, and marked the best set of freshman essays she had seen all year.