The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Honey Porter and the Queerbitch Match

mc, ff, fd, hu

Disclaimer: Though but an humble parody, this story is an adult narrative, involving explicit sexual activity between consenting hot chicks. If you are under age or are offended by such material, don’t read it. The story is my intellectual property; you may download it for your own amusement, but please do not repost it on any site that charges users for the privilege of reading the story.

As the time for their first match approached, Honey Porter found herself wishing more and more that she had not been chosen as the Sniffer on the Flickfinger Queerbitch team. She had never even heard of the game before coming to the Hotbods University of Witchery and Wizarding. In fact, like practically all Muddleds, she had never thought that such things as flying carpets existed outside of fairy tales. And then had come her first week at the University, when she discovered she had a real aptitude for piloting the wretched things. Now, as Hotbods’ Queerbitch Coliseum filled with students from all four Colleges, Honey tried hard to swallow her fears. It was even harder than what some of the other girls had told her about gulping down Professor Snake’s curiously icy semen.

From the locker room, she could hear the tramp of hundreds of feet overhead, and Honey pictured the students filing in: those wearing the pink and gold of Flickfinger, of course, but also students decked out in the blue and silver of Goodanstuffed, or the white and gray of Jismflow, or, worst of all, the rather sinister students who would be wearing the nubbly red jumpers of Slippitin, ribbed for their pleasure. Feverishly, Honey reviewed over and over in her head what team captain Tina Whompas had told her of the game and the things she had learned in practice.

Queerbitch was an all-girl game (though Honey still harbored deep suspicions that the oddly masculine Slippitin Sniffer, Draga Foulboy, was more like drag-queen Foulboy). There were seven players to a side. No, one of them is unnecessary, let’s just say, oh, six will do. Guarding the Slits, or goals, which looked like great oval hoops with round nubbins at the very top, all painted a wet-looking, glistening pink, would be the Frigids, one per side. Two Pumpers on each team tried hard to put the Schlong, a cylindrical ball like an enormous bratwurst or a, well, you know, into the Slit. Meanwhile each team had two Humpers, whose job it was to guard their own Pumpers when their team had possession of the Schlong and to zap the other team’s Pumpers with Crampons, magical balls that put anyone they hit into serious menstrual pain, or with the nearly identical Clutchers, which split open as they flew and tried to cop a feel. It could be extremely distracting to have a Clutcher pinch your shapely bum, or latch onto your taut nipple, or worst of all burrow into the damp valley between your legs whilst you were on a flying carpet.

Meanwhile, as the Frigids, Pumpers, and Humpers wove their patterns of play some twenty-five feet above ground level, high above the action flew the two opposing Sniffers, looking for the Flying Snatch.

When the opposing Pumper came close with a Schlong, the defending Frigid tried with every ounce of determination to prevent penetration of her Slit. If a Pumper evaded the Frigid and drove a Schlong into the Slit, she would score various levels of points. A Schlong sent in too enthusiastically would instantly deflate and fall out again, for a paltry three points. One better aimed and controlled would hang in the Slit and quiver. If the Slit began to glow and drip before the Schlong hung limp, that was an additional three points. And if the Schlong was sent into the Slit just right, it would vibrate until the Slit suddenly clenched down on it and throbbed passionately. This was good for an additional four points and was called the Big O.

However, none of this made the least bit of difference (or even much sense), because the Sniffer who first caught the Flying Snatch would score fifteen billion points. A Sniffer could trap a Snatch by inserting two fingers in it and wriggling them, or by tucking it between her legs and grinding her pussy against it, or by sticking her tongue inside it. Any of these would send a signal to the score-keeper and win the points and the game, rendering everything else that went on down below completely irrelevant.

Of course, since by the rules Queerbitch games went on until someone finally caught the Snatch, odd things occasionally occurred. There were tales of a game that had been begun in August, 1502, between the Puddleby Puckers and the Slottery Sluts that was still being carried on by the descendants of the original players. This was owing to the Flying Snatch’s accidentally having risen high enough to intercept a migratory group of Dongducks and discovering it really, really liked them. For the most part, though, Queerbitch was a witchy-and-wizardy game that everyone enjoyed because it gave them an opportunity to get barking drunk, fondle bits of the opposite sex’s anatomy, and afterward, celebrating victory or bemoaning defeat, suck on things they otherwise would not have put in their mouths on a bet.

Tina, obviously worried about the game, strode up and down the locker room inspecting her girls. They all wore the standard Queerbitch uniform for their college: very abbreviated cut-off T-shirts with nothing under them (very exciting for the observers when the team worked up a sweat) and matching open-crotch short shorts (because in a pinch even a Frigid could win a game by pressing her snatch to the Snatch), and ribbon sandals just for the hell of it. The Flickfinger team wore tees and shorts of shocking pink, with golden ribbons laced up their shapely legs.

Tina would be flying Frigid today, though she had told Honey that up to last year she had been a Humper. Unfortunately, the star Frigid for the team, Lena Alone, had graduated. Now Wanda Littlepeace had taken over Tina’s old position of Left Humper. Right Humper was Louise Morals, and the Greasly twins, Frieda and Georgina, played as Pumpers. All had established themselves as Queerbitch veterans. Honey represented the lone freshman on the team—and the only one, owing to her having been raised by Muddleds, whose understanding of the game was on par with Paris Hilton’s knowledge of quantum physics.

“Any moment now, any moment now,” Tina murmured feverishly. Just as she passed Honey for the third time, Honey heard a desperate “Psst!” coming from the direction of the locker-room door.

She glanced around. Just outside the doorway to the corridor stood Honey’s friend Herman Groaner, a brilliant wizarding student. He jerked his head. Honey slipped away from her seat on the bench, carrying her rolled-up magic carpet under her arm. “You’re not supposed to be here,” Honey whispered, stepping out into the corridor.

“Yeah, I know, and ordinarily I’d never break rules, but this is important,” Hermie said in an urgent voice. “Look, Ronnie told me she accidentally overheard—”

“Ronnie?” Honey asked, rolling her eyes. Veronica Greasly, the younger sister of Frieda and Georgina, was keen on Queerbitch and Honey’s best friend, but she was a bit of a wet end. “Ronnie gets herself all worked up over nothing, you know that—”

“Yeah, but listen! Ronnie heard Professor Snake teaching Draga Foulboy a bollixing spell! It’s called Mind Manacles, ever hear of it?”

Honey shook her head. Of course, spell-casting was expressly forbidden during Queerbitch games, but as immediately after starting the match the umpire invariably wandered off the field to find some place to masturbate, most games were enlivened, if such a word can be applied to such a mindless enterprise, by students inexpertly casting hexes at each other. “What does it do?” Honey asked.

“It shackles the mind,” Hermie said urgently. “It prevents the exercise of good judgment and confounds the intellect—”

“I’ll let you feel my tits later if you’ll tell me what the damn spell does.”

“Okay,” gulped Hermie, his eyes getting very round. “It confuses the hell out of you.”

“Hmm. I suppose you know a counter-spell?”

“Got a couple that might work.” Hermie leaned in close, ostensibly to whisper the spells into Honey’s ear but actually, she knew, to try to look down her nonexistent cleavage. Those cut-off tees were really tight.

“And if that doesn’t work—” Herman swallowed hard. “Well, here.” He slipped something into Honey’s hand.

She stared at it. Except for not having a point, it looked exactly like a bright purple dart, down to the feathers. “What’s this?”

Hermie had been staring down at the slit in her open-crotch shorts and had to take some few moments to put his tongue back inside his mouth. “I remembered you said you were very keen on that Muddled game, darks—”

“Darts,” she corrected.

“Yeah, whatever. Well, I concocted this in the Artifacts lab. I call it a guiding missile. It has an embedded spell in it. If worst comes to worst, throw this hard at Draga’s head. That should do the—”

Then Tina yelped, “Let’s go, team!”

“Gotta go,” gasped Honey, and she tucked the odd little purple dart into her waistband and ducked back into the locker room, where she brought up the rear as the Flickfingers jogged out onto the field, boobies abounce.

Mistress Cooze, the Queerbitch instructor, was the officiating referee. As the two teams gathered in opposite glowering semicircles, the scarlet-clad Slippitins snarling and sneering at their pink-and-gold clad rivals, Mistress Cooze, staggering a bit on her feet, muttered, “Wan’ thish to be a glean came, now. No, no, no hittin’ below the belt. An’ ‘specially no lickin’ unless I get my share! Aw, hell, play the damn game.” And she tossed the Flying Snatch up into the air, where it promptly whizzed away. She counted, “One, two, where was I? Two, four, three!” She blew her whistle, and both teams unrolled and mounted their flying carpets.

Honey took a wide rising circuit of the Queerbitch field, enjoying the feeling of the wind in her hair. Unfortunately, since Sniffers had to kneel with legs spread atop their carpets, opening the crotch of their shorts just in case they seized the Snatch and chose to press it, the breeze also dried her out down there. That was all right. When the time came, she’d think of tongues and fingers and wangs and go with the flow again.

Below her the two teams waged a furious contest. Tina, minding her Slit, fought off a determined drive by Evilina Awfulslut, one of the best Pumpers Hotbods had ever produced. Evilina really knew how to handle a Schlong. She came zooming down at the Slit, the Schlong held at the ready, and only a masterful maneuver by Tina, who really was a good Frigid, diverted the oblong ball from parting the lips of the goal. Tina passed the Schlong to Frieda. Then Duna Nasty, one of the Slippitins’ Humpers, promptly fired off a Crampon, hoping to make Frieda fumble, but the Crampon narrowly missed its target and instead flew down into the stands. Honey heard Yakima (“Yakky”) Takanodda, who was commentating, exclaim, “What a close call! The Crampon just missed Frieda Greasly by maybe an inch and instead hit an innocent bystander, Mona Groaner of Goodanstuffed—well, I say innocent, last time I saw her she had two cocks inside her and was jerking off two more—”

“Takanodda!” shrieked Professor McGonagan, the head of Flickfinger.

“Sorry, Prof, bet Mona’s got a first-class case of PMS now—”

“Screw you, bitch!” came the faint, anguished voice of Mona.

“—but Frieda passes to Georgina, who loops over Betsy Badstink, bad luck Bets, now what are you going to do with your Clutcher, and Slippitin’s Frigid, Isobel “Ironpants” Dungwort gets into position, steady on, and—and Frieda slips past her and scores! Look at that Schlong in that Slit! It’s quivering like mad—the Slit is lighting up and glistening—yes! Ten points to Flickfinger, as if any of you fuckers cared.”

Now Draga and Honey were orbiting the field, diagonally opposite each other. Honey frowned at the blonde Draga—she could be more attractive if she didn’t wear her hair in that horrible butch cut, Honey had heard she was a right dom—and then she scanned the skies for the Flying Snatch. Low clouds were rolling in, flat and gray. In a way, that made it easier, for the fluttering pink Snatch would show up more clearly, but on the other hand, the Snatch could soar up to two thousand feet above the ground, and the clouds weren’t that high. If the Snatch decided to lose itself in the clouds, that would make the Sniffers’ jobs much harder.

Some instinct made Honey jerk her gaze toward Draga, and she saw that the Slippitin Sniffer was working some hex up, linking her thumbs together and waggling her fingers. Honey immediately began to chant the protective counter-spell, “Umber Ella Bumber Shoot”. As a jet of red light leaped out at her from Draga’s hands, Honey’s spell opened in mid air with a swock!, forming an invisible protective dome. The red light slammed into it and sprayed off harmlessly in glittering sparks, and Honey saw Draga curse. With a cocky grin, Honey showed Draga what her middle finger looked like.

Knowing she was safe for at least a few minutes, because Dark curses took more out of a girl than three successive orgasms with the aid of a vibrating dildo, Honey soared higher, having a strong hunch that the Flying Snatch would be close to the cloud base. Yakky’s commentary thinned to near inaudibility, though Honey heard enough to know that Slippitin had made two pretty fair goals, bringing the score to 12-10, their favor. Draga, who was so busy cursing her bad luck that she had not at first noticed Honey’s spiraling climb, was now rocking on her rounded knees, urging her own flying carpet, a Warpenwoof 2000, into a steep ascent.

Now Honey hovered with her head only a few inches beneath the wisping ceiling of cloud, staring this way and that, her eyes peeled for Snatch. Draga, thirty feet beneath her, yelled up, “Nice move, Portapotty! Did your Muddled relatives teach you that?”

“Shut up, Foulboy,” said Honey, growing angry. Everyone in school knew that her own parents, a witch and wizard of legendary powers, had died tragically when she was only one year old.

“Heard your mum and dad were Muddleds, too!” jeered Draga. “They just posed as magicians! Heard they were acrobats!”

“Shut up,” snapped Honey again. She knew her parents had not been acrobats at all, though it was true they had died in an accident involving a trapeze.

Then she saw it, a flash of pink behind Draga’s head, rising in a steep climb. Using her knees, Honey urged her carpet to follow it. Draga’s head whipped around, she saw the Snatch too, and both players plunged into the cloud cover at the same instant.

The world turned grey. Honey sped in what she thought was the same trajectory as the Snatch. Somewhere just beneath her was Draga on her newer, faster carpet. If they collided—but Honey had no time to worry about that now. She burst out of the clouds and found herself soaring above a shining white layer, beneath a glorious blue sky. She couldn’t see the ground at all. A moment later, Draga emerged—and her hand was about to close on the Snatch!

Honey whipped her carpet around in a tight turn, grabbed the purple dart from the waistband of her shorts, and expertly flung it in a move she’d practiced in a hundred pubs back during her old life among the Muddleds.

It might not have worked had Draga had the wit to keep an eye on her foe, but so intent was she on fingering the Snatch that she let the hurtling purple dart strike her right on her forehead. It exploded in a great billow of purple mist and in a voice like an unhinged piccolo the exploding missile exulted, “You’re my beeyatch!”

Draga lolled loosely on her magic carpet, barely grasping the very corner of the fluttering Snatch between finger and thumb.

Honey swooped closer. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“I am in your power,” Draga responded in a monotone. Anger flared in her eyes, and Honey could tell that she was struggling to press the Snatch to her lips, but her limbs would not obey her will. “Command me,” she said dully.

Of course—a guiding missile! Clever, clever Hermie had infused the dart with a variant of the “Beamy Beeyatch” mind-control spell! Hmm, thought Honey. The spoken spell made the victim one’s slave for twelve whole hours! This had possibilities.

“I am your Mistress,” Honey told the helpless Draga.

The Slippitin Sniffer struggled against the charm, revulsion, hatred, anger, and resistance flickering over her face. Her full lips writhed, trying to trap the words, but they came out of her mouth anyway: “Yyou arrrre mmmmy Mistress,” Draga groaned, resistance draining from her face.

“Come to your Mistress,” ordered Honey.

“Yes,” said Draga in a dull, dreamy way.

“Give me the Snatch.”

“Here.”

Honey took the struggling Snatch, cupped it in her right palm, and slipped it down between her legs. When she had it positioned just right, she squirmed down, pressing her pussy tight against the Snatch and felt throbs of pleasure as the Snatch, now dripping wet, surged and smacked against her. It felt just as though she were bitch-fucking another girl, something she had only thought idly about. The quivering Snatch couldn’t hold out for long, but sent out its mystic signal, from far below the clouds the bell rang, climaxing the game, and very faintly Honey could hear Yakky shrieking, “Honey Porter satisfied the Snatch! Flickfinger wins! Flickfinger wins! Flickfinger wins!”

The Snatch had evaporated, as it always did when properly captured and subdued, but it had left Honey strangely excited and unfulfilled. She lay back on her carpet, pushed off her shorts, and spread her legs. “You know what to do, Slave,” she said. “Make me come!”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Despite her obvious reluctance, Draga’s tongue began to part the furled lips of Honey’s own slit. She squirmed, pressing her pubis hard against the other girl’s lips. Twelve hours. This might be a lot of fun, she thought. She wondered how long the guiding missile’s Beeyatch spell would last. If—oh, that was so nice—if it was anything like Herman Groaner’s other spells, it might keep Draga in thrall for days!

The carpets slowly sank into the shining clouds. Honey reached down and grasped Draga’s close-cropped head, guiding the other girl’s lips and tongue. She arched her back, the breath coming fast in her chest. Now she was damp all over, and she felt beads of moisture in Draga’s short blonde hair.

“Draga, they say you used to be a boy,” teased Honey.

Draga looked up, angry eyes gleaming, as were her lips and chin. “Lies!” she said. “I’m a girl. I’m just very butch! I don’t like going down on girls, I like them to do it to—”

“Lick my cunt, Slave,” said Honey severely.

“Yes, Mistress.” Draga lowered her face again and began to slurp and lap lustily.

The first ripples of orgasm began to spread out from Honey’s throbbing clit. Mm. She’d definitely have to thank Hermie for his quick thinking and his spells. Oh, yeah. And if the Beeyatch spell just held—yeah, right there, oh god, right there!—then she and Draga could get together really blow Hermie’s mind, among other things—oh, god, she was coming! “Yes!” she shrieked in the enveloping privacy of cloud. “Yes, god, yes, make me come, bitch, make me come!

Down in the stands, a thrilled and frankly rather horny Ronnie stared at the overcast sky. “I wonder why she’s not back down yet,” she said in a worried voice.

Beside her a drunken Herman put his hand over her shoulder and squeezed her right tit. “She’s probably doing a victory loop up there in the clouds.”

Ronnie squirmed. “Don’t do that! A little lower and more to the left—that’s better. I hope Honey’s not opening herself for trouble.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, pinching her perky nipple. “Honey’s got a really good head.”

The End