The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Stace’s first class—or, rather, the first class that she went to—on her first day of university was CLIT 101. Her prof was a stocky Norwegian man with a tobacco-stained beard, and his introductory lecture seemed calculated to drain all enthusiasm from the room, leaving the students nearly comatose. He covered the whiteboards with illegible, but apparently vital, chicken scratch writing, and whenever he strode up the aisle, he left a trail of stale onion smell hanging right at nose-level. By the half-way mark of the first class, the poor man had already spawned half a dozen nicknames, and rendered a lecture hall full of formerly bright-eyed students bored stiff.

Except for Stace. She wasn’t bored. She was terrified.

Since the class had begun, she was trying to anticipate what the prof was going to say. She’d started out sceptical, refusing to believe what her roommates had told her about Dr. Hunt’s power to convey knowledge into her mind. But when she began to take notes, she found that she automatically wrote down everything prof was going to say—before it came out of his mouth. What’s more, she realized, it all made sense to her, as if it had been in her memory all along.

She was so disturbed by this, she actually stopped thinking about sex for awhile.

Since leaving Hunt House, Stacey had managed to calm her libido to a manageable throb. At first, it was unbearable; every girl she saw, and even some of the guys, seemed like walking invitations, urging her with every movement to plunge her hand back underneath her skirt and start the whole, orgasmic cycle over. If she hadn’t been hurrying to class, she probably would have turned back. As it was, she had to duck into every ladies’ room she passed, hog the nearest stall, and attack her needy clitoris anew.

None of the side treks were successful. Despite having learned a half dozen new techniques from Becky, Colleen, and Rachel, she only managed to confirm what they’d told her in no uncertain terms: she couldn’t make herself come.

That was the thought that chilled her lust. She stopped thinking about sex because she was afraid of all that had been changed inside her. Was her inability to come a psychological change? Had they, or the unseen Dr. Hunt, somehow reached inside her mind and flipped some sort of switch, the way they (she?) had also somehow given her all this academic knowledge? Or was it physiological? Had her body been changed along with her mind? She didn’t know which one was worse.

By the time the class was wrapping up, she had enough time and distance from Hunt House that she no longer felt the urgent song of horniness inside her. It was a relief. And if the changes were all in her mind, well, maybe that meant that they would fade, too, with time. But that would mean not going back.

The students around her stood up. The prof had just said something about a library assignment, and partners, and although she’d written it all down, she wasn’t focused. She was planning an escape. If she could find another place to stay…maybe Maddy would let her crash there, after all, since it was an emergency…but what if they found her? Would she have to leave the city? Switch schools? What if they—

“Stacey?” She heard her name, and felt her stomach clench. They’d found her already!

But the voice wasn’t familiar. It was melodious, accented…a classmate. Her mind returned to here and now. All the students were calling out each other’s names—searching for their partners.

“Stacey?” The voice again. She looked down at the automatic notes. There, amid a list of partnered names: her own. And…

“Marga?” She read aloud. Now the sea of students parted, and she saw a red haired girl, dressed in striped bohemian attire, smiling over at her with wide hazel eyes. Marga waved in response, and began crossing over to Stace.

Stace rose from her chair. Her mind was reeling; she wasn’t sure that she could do this, just now. Maybe if she pretended to be ill…

Marga reached Stace and grabbed her hand, pumping it with masculine fervour.

“I am klad to meet jou,” Marga said brightly. Her accent sounded Ukrainian or Russian. Not surprising, really; comparative literature attracted students from around the world.

“Me, too—or, um, likewise,” Stace stammered. “Look—”

Marga leaned in and lowered her voice confidentially. “Did jou understand anythink from vat he said? I tink I’m goink to fail.”

She said it with a laugh, and Stace laughed too, in spite of herself. Marga’s scent reached her nostrils just as she pulled away: musky, foresty. Safety.

“I can lend you my notes,” Stace said. “I take pretty good notes, I think.”

“Zat would be really awesome,” Marga said, over-enunciating the slang word to make sure she got it right. Stace laughed again. Something about the foreign girl put her at ease. Maybe it was the fact that they had both suddenly found themselves immersed in strange new waters. Or maybe she just felt safe in comparison to the girls back at Hunt House.

The Russian girl—she was pretty sure it was a Russian accent now—was pulling a campus map out of her massive shoulder bag. “Are you free, now, to finding ze library vith me? Dis thing for next class, it is a killer assignment.” She looked up suddenly, her eyes wide and bright again. “Or you have other tings to do, maybe? I’m sorry.”

“No!” Said Stace, a bit too hastily. “No, I’m done with classes for the day, and I, I’d rather not go home…just yet.”

Marga didn’t seem to sense her desperate tone, and quickly the two girls were shoulder to shoulder in a press of undergraduates squeezing through the pedways to the library. Stace decided this opportunity would give her the chance to act and behave like a real student. Even if she her altered brain somehow knew the location of every book on every shelf, Marga didn’t know. She could follow the redhead’s lead, and everything would feel normal for awhile.

Provided Stace could keep her thoughts clean. That turned out to be tough, since it turned out Marga was very much the sort of girl that used to foster painful crushes inside her secret heart. The Russian girl was sparkly-eyed, vivacious and talkative—her accent quickly became Stace’s new favourite sound. Watching her crane her neck to scan the upper shelves, Stace remembered gazing at the necks of her classmates or best friends. She never dared to touch them, and now, reliving that feeling, she felt a poignant nostalgia.

Now, of course, she’d touched more than girls’ necks. In the past 24 hours, she’d discovered parts of girls’ bodies that she’d barely been aware of, despite living inside one for nearly 19 years. It made her feel powerful, even though she knew she’d been tricked into doing it. If she could escape from the lure of Hunt House, she would now be able to do all those things...to girls like Marga…

A sudden heat flowered in her, as she imagined the things she’d do to Marga’s body. The sounds she’d make…

“So, vhere are you living? Is it residence?”

Her heart flipped over with terror. The power she’d just been feeling emptied out into a sick feeling of helplessness. Marga was looking at her, bright-eyed, awaiting a reply.

“N-not in residence. Just—with some friends.”

She was sweating down the back of her neck. If Marga found out about Hunt House…if she ever came to the house, she could be enslaved by it, just as swiftly as Stacey had been.

Her fear built up as they continued moving through the shelves. She didn’t want to be responsible for anyone losing themselves the way she had. It meant she couldn’t let herself get close to anyone—no honesty, no intimacy. Keep it a secret, for their sakes.

“My feet are killink me,” Marga complained cheerfully. And then she started humming.

Stace’s world tilted and spun. She braced herself against a rack of books. She had to bite her tongue to keep from moaning aloud.

The tune Marga was humming had thrown a switch inside her. All her naughty thoughts from a moment ago returned with riptide urgency. She needed to touch herself, or she would scream. To hell with that, she needed to get fucked. Now.

Marga paused at the end of the rack. “Vat’s the matter, Stace-y?” She asked.

The humming had ceased, but Stace’s fucklust was still in charge. She balled her fists tightly, to keep them from slipping underneath her skirt. No underwear. “Mmm…’m fine,” she managed. “Jus’…gotta pee.”

Without waiting for a reaction from the Russian girl, Stace turned and lurched away. The library was a maze; she hadn’t been paying any attention, just following Marga around, watching her ass move in her jeans, thinking…God, she could go back, she thought. She could go right back, ten steps back, and she could throw Marga onto the floor, overpower her, shove her hand down the back of her pants until she found that ass, that pussy…

She bit her lip and focused on the pain.

She couldn’t find the toilets. Finally she found herself in a short dead end corridor jammed tight with oversized, dust-lined atlases. The fluorescents above were half burnt out, casting the corner in dull yellow gloom. She ran to the end and fell forward, leaning into the shelves, fighting to catch her breath. A bright bloom of pleasure erupted behind her eyes. That was the first message from her body telling her that her self-control had run out; her hands were both between her legs, one set of fingers furious inside her cunt while her others spun and smashed her clit.

She tried to stay quiet. She was able to restrict herself to grunts and sobs, although they sounded muted to her, overpowered by the wet, pornographic slapping from her crotch. The sobs came with tears, though; she could feel them clearly enough.

Stace couldn’t really say how long she masturbated in the library, but it was long enough to be reminded of the curse of Hunt House. She could have kept it up all term, and she never would have come. Colleen’s words taunted her: “You’ll never come by yourself again.”

But when she finally turned around, there was another possibility, staring slack-jawed at her from the end of the hall.

He looked like a freshman: tall, but with a fresh, young look to his clothing and hair. He had a bookbag slung over one shoulder, and a cell phone in his hand. The phone was open, as if he were going to take a picture. But the way it dawdled limply in his hand suggested it was never used, and now forgotten.

Ordinarily, Stace would not have given him a second glance. She’d never felt like she needed anything from boys. But at this terrible, demented moment in her life, she only needed one thing, and if he could provide it…well, it was better than having her photo plastered on the fucking internet.

“C’mere.” She lifted up her skirt and pointed to her pussy, so he’d know exactly where here was. “I gotta come.”

The freshman stared for another few seconds, but he didn’t need to be told twice. Cell phone and bookback left behind, he pressed in upon Stace, hands scrambling at his belt while trying to get ahold of her, as if to prove she wasn’t a mirage.

With another body in play, things became a blur for Stacey. Every touch and breath made her cunt clench in expectation. When his pants came down and his cock came out, she shocked herself by letting out a long, hungry moan. A lifetime of ambivalence, even mild distaste, about the whole notion of straight sex, dissolved in a heartbeat. Replaced by need.

“Should we, uh, maybe, d’you think…a condom?”

Stace responded by wrapping her small hand around his cock. It was yielding and rigid at the same time. She replied, half-cackling, half-sobbing, “I’m not even a fucking human any more.”

The guy was flustered, but with her hand pumping up and down his penis, there was no thought of retreat at this point. Stace ran her other hand across her own swollen loins, confirming she was wet enough to take him. She’d never been wetter.

She didn’t want to lie down on the linoleum floor, but she was too short to get fucked standing up. So she kicked off her shoes, pushed the boy against a sturdy rack of books, and scaled the shelves, spread spider-like around his torso until she felt his cock prod her thigh. She was clinging to the shelves with both hands and feet. She felt sure she would slip off and crack her head on the tiled floor. The danger made it hotter.

“Get that fucking thing of yours inside me,” She hissed.

Stace couldn’t read the boy’s reaction, for his face was half-hidden in the crush of her cleavage. But he obeyed, tugging up her skirt and steering his “thing” between her lips. Its pressure was a balm; it was a choir that filled her like a cathedral. She exhaled again, then dropped her torso let the cock shove its full length up into her cunt.

“Stace-y?”

Behind a white blindness, she could vaguely hear her name being called. Every muscle in her body was engaged, riding up and down the stationary cock, straining to cling to the shelves. And her mind was taken up with forcing herself to stay quiet (the boy was silenced beneath Stace’s shirted breasts; in fact, it was probably he couldn’t breathe). So her name barely registered when she heard it, even a second time.

But the accent was real. The voice was Marga’s.

“Don’t come over!” Stace yelped. She strained her neck around, but all she saw of Marga was a shadow from around the shelves.

“Vat’s wrong? You disappeared.”

Stace’s body never stopped fucking, and the angry need to come never diminished for a second. But her mind was tempered by a razor-sharp fear. If Marga stepped around that corner and saw her new friend wantonly impaling herself on some anonymous boy’s prick, she could be horrified or disgusted—but that wasn’t Stace’s fear. Her fear was that Marga would want to share.

So she summoned up the strength to lie. “I’m, I’m just, I’m sick. I got, just, sick, all over, I—I threw up on myself and I don’t want you t-t-to see—”

Between her tits, the cock’s owner groaned.

“I can help you, it’s okay—” Began Marga.

“NO!” Stace shouted, unconsciously increasing the rate of her piston-like motions. “You can’t, you really can’t help, Marga, you c-can’t…help…” Not a lie, after all.

The boy beneath her was shuddering and gasping. She vaguely felt an extra pulse of heat inside her. So that was what it felt like.

Marga made one last effort. “Stace-y, are you sure—?”

“Fuck off, okay?!” Stace choked on the words, but she knew it was the only way to protect the girl. The cock inside her seemed to be deflating. She was still pumping, but she could feel her own momentum drain away. Her muscles were on fire.

Marga’s shadow hesitated, then withdrew. Stace couldn’t bear the thought of facing her again, the next time they had class together. She never wanted to go back. But then, she didn’t really have to.

The boy struggled out and slid down to the floor, gasping for breath. She lowered herself off the shelves. She hadn’t had an orgasm.

“Jesus,” gasped the freshman. “That was…Jesus.”

“Shut up,” Stace said miserably. She couldn’t stand the sight of him, but at the same time, even his limp penis, thick with semen and her own juice, made her want to go again.

Fighting tears, she scooped up her shoes and started running home.