The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

House Rules

Fit the Fourth

Note: Sorry for the long delay. If any fans still linger, enjoy part 4 of 5. —Trystor

Stacey was sure she’d taken the quickest, most direct route back to Hunt House, but apparently there was a faster way; when she burst through the front door, eyes still sore from crying, she stopped short at the sight of the freshman she’d just left behind in the library.

He was lying on his side upon the foyer floor, a few feet from the base of the grand staircase. His pants and undershorts were bunched around his ankles, and his cock stuck out from his rigid torso, like a rude, foreshortened branch of a lowercase y. His left hand was wrapped around the member, and he seemed to be masturbating absent-mindedly—more of a pulsing motion than a thrusting one, like muscles spasmotically tensing and releasing. His eyes were cloudy, elsewhere.

Stace stood on the threshold, catching her breath, trying to process what she was looking at. She couldn’t even decide which question to pose first: how the freshman knew where she lived, why he’d raced here before her, or why he was exposing himself on the hardwood floor. In the meantime, she was no longer surprised to find that the sight of the boy’s cock, his pulsing hand, his twitching ass cheeks, all instilled a surge of lust inside her. Even though her pussy still ached from her last assault on this hapless, anonymous man, she wanted him again.

She fought the urge to flip him onto his back and straddle him. She took decisive mental note of the location of her hands: both far from her groin, and clenched tightly, to prevent any unconscious self-fingering. Slowly, she began to walk the room’s perimeter, keeping her distance from the semi-conscious boy. She got halfway to the stairs when the open doorway to the sun room caught her eye; there, sprawled and reading on the couch, was Becky.

Stacey opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out was a weak, bewildered sigh. This was enough, though; Becky glanced up from her reading, smiled at Stacey, and then waved over to join her in the sun room. She was wearing a patch-spangled pair of jeans and a spaghetti shirt, both of which seemed faded from too many washings. But her skin was bright and radiant in the sun.

“Come on in, sweetie. Don’t mind the fella on the floor, there.” Becky said.

As Stacey crossed the room past the freshman; he emitted a long, low groan in her wake.

In the sun room, Becky sat up and stretched her arms and back. Her book dropped to the floor, but she didn’t seem to care she’d lost her place. Stacey gestured vaguely back towards the foyer. “He was...I was...in the library, I...”

Becky’s kohl-dark eyes grew wide. “He’s one of yours? That’s awesome. I thought he was Rachel’s catch; he seemed like Rachel’s type, you know?” She patted the cushion beside her, and Stacey dropped heavily onto the couch. “So, you got your first one already. See, I knew you’d be a quick study.”

Stacey fought back tears of confusion. The sight of the boy in the next room, tranced out and still twitching, made her want to throw up. But at the same time, there was something soothing about being back in the house, and sitting beside Becky. She was overcome with a drowsy wave of pleasure as she remembered how Becky had fucked her last night—and again, in the kitchen, only a few hours ago. Now she wanted to curl up in the other girl’s musky scent and forget all about the library.

Becky seemed to sense her need for contact, and began to stroke Stacey’s cheek and hair. “Tell me all about it,” Becky cooed, and then, before Stace could respond, she went on, “In the library! Ooh, and you, up, clinging to the shelves! You slutty girl!”

“How do you know all that?” Stacey murmured. Her eyes were still on the boy in the foyer, but the stroking sensation was causing her lids to sink. Everything was fogging up with lust.

Becky shifted closer to Stace on the couch. “We share everything, remember?” Her hand drew a languid figure eight down Stacey’s cheek, across her lips and chin, then down to trace the orbit of her breast. “Ooh, sweetie, you nearly smothered him with these!”

Stacey blushed as she remembered the boy’s strangled sounds, crushed inside her needy cleavage. “I’m sick,” she blurted out, “I think I’m sick, and crazy. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t understand...”

“Hey, honey, shh...” Becky kissed a tear as it escaped onto her cheek. “You’re not sick. There’s nothing wrong with you. It’s beautiful. And it’s totally safe, and so much fun. But you know that part already.”

“But what’s he even doing here? He looks sick.”

The other girl turned Stacey’s head towards her, forcing her to look away from the foyer. “Forget him, ‘kay? The Doctor’s got him now. You brought him here; that’s your job. You’re a good, good girl.”

“My job? But what...?”

“Hey, shh. Your job. Good girl. And you know what good girls get, who do their job? They get rewards.” Becky punctuated her sentence with a long kiss on the lips. Stacey was expecting—hoping, even—to feel Becky’s hands back on her breasts, or dipping further downwards. But she kept caressing Stacey’s cheeks and hair, and they kept on kissing, deep but not ferocious. Calm. Romantic.

Stacey’s lust adjusted. She marvelled inwardly as the constant, pulsing need for sex softened and brightened into something new and lovely. She began exploring Becky’s skin with her hands, and then her mouth, but without the urgency of orgasm, it became a dreamy, aimless journey, like an improvised tune with no end or beginning. Their clothes found their own way off them, and the heat of the sun through the high angled windows baked their skin until they seemed to melt together into one lazy mass.

When they were finished making love, Becky playfully kissed Stacey three times—one on the lips and one for each nipple—then went upstairs to shower. Stacey lay on the couch and gazed over into the foyer. The floor was empty now. The freshman was gone.

Two hours later, as the three other girls prepared supper downstairs, Stacey decided to run.

She’d barred herself inside her room soon after the tryst with Becky. When the girls’ voices started rising from the kitchen, she stole out into the long, odd-angled hallway to eavesdrop. Rachel and Colleen’s voices carried better, but she could still hear Becky clear as day, as she told them about Stacey’s library fuck—every detail, clear as if she’d been there herself.

Whenever the girl reached an especially juicy part in the story, Colleen or Rache would say, “I gotta see that for myself,” or “Show me that,” or else they’d just moan and giggle together. Stacey could picture them, touching each other’s hair and cheeks as they shared the images and feelings Becky stole from her mind. That’s what it was, she told herself. That’s exactly what it was, some sort of telepathic...vampiric...something. She didn’t know if she was a victim, or one of the vampires. Either way, she couldn’t let herself be a part of it.

Downstairs, the story had ended, but now the girls were comparing notes on their new roommate. “Stacey’s fast,” said Becky with a hint of pride.

“She hasn’t settled in yet,” Colleen said disapprovingly. “She needs to submit.”

“D’you see how big her lips and clit get when she’s hot?” Asked Rachel, prompting another round of giggling.

Then Rachel asked, “I wonder what she likes? I mean, you know, what really turns her on?”

Stacey blushed and retreated to her room. Part of her wondered how she could possibly ever get more turned on than she already had at the hands of these sirens. But she also knew, if she stayed to hear their ideas, she’d quickly get too aroused to think up a plan of escape.

She was able to keep her mind out of the gutter while she packed a bag. She decided that she couldn’t risk going home; if these girls could get inside her mind, they might be able to glean her address...the names of her relatives and friends...and track her down. She resolved to take a bus in the opposite direction. Disappear, at least until this lusty fog was out of her system.

Her bag was almost full, and she paused when she had to decide between a sweater and a wad of panties. But her own underthings looked so foreign to her now, even though she’d only given up wearing them this morning. She knew intellectually that, once she got free of Hunt House, she’d wear them again, like every normal girl. But a dampened melody inside her cunt said no, and so she scattered them on the floor, stuffed the sweater in her bag, and zipped up.

As she hoisted up the window pane and positioned herself to heave her bag down to the lawn, she heard the dinner bell. She swore. If she left now, they’d be after her right away. But if she tried to fake her way through supper, she was screwed. If any one of them so much as put a hand on her arm, they’d hear her escape plan like a megaphone inside her.

She opened her bedroom door just as Colleen called her name up the stairs. Taking a deep breath, she called back in a voice that, she hoped, sounded like a post-orgasmic throaty moan. “I, uh...can’t, don’t wanna come down right now...kinda in the middle of something, y’know?”

The girls were silent for a second, then with relief, she heard the chorus of giggles. Becky’s voice responded with, “Don’t have too much fun by yourself. Remember, we share everything!”

Here was the real bluff, she thought. “I’ll share when I get down there, promise! I just gotta finish first—you know how it is!” She bit her lip, shut her door, and prayed. When she heard no footsteps on the stairs, she hoped she was in luck, and so she turned back to the window.

Getting herself and her bag out the second-storey window was easier than she’d feared, since the porch wrapped around the house and the hedge ran right alongside. The dining room was on the far side of the house, so she was sure nobody heard her drop into the foliage. She wriggled through into the neighbour’s yard, then slipped through an unlatched gate into the alley. She didn’t know the streets that well, but once she found a main street, she asked somebody for directions to the bus station. She didn’t even think once about fucking them.

At the station, she changed her mind about the plan. She could run away, but if the sirens knew where she lived—if they’d already snatched it from her mind during one of their orgies—then they might still come after them. So it was better to go home, and warn her friends...her parents. She had no clue how she would tell them a single detail without dying of shame, but she had a long bus ride to come up with something. The only bus to her town left at 11:30pm.

She bought a ticket, then found an unlocked supply closet. There, she hid for three hours, till they announced her bus was leaving. This was a precaution against being spotted, but she also felt she would be safer if she wasn’t close to people. She wasn’t sure if she’d get horny again, lose control and rape some girl or guy. As it was, she didn’t even feel the need to touch herself, even though the smell of her own naked pussy sometimes rose as she shifted around in the closet.

The station was lit by floodlights, so she could see all around her as she crossed to the terminal. No sign of the sirens. She got her ticket punched and checked her bag into the storage bin. Up onto the purring bus, and back to her seat. She’d hoped the seat beside her would be unoccupied, but instead she found the next best thing: an old woman, already asleep and snoring lightly. She didn’t stir as Stacey sat down. She peered past the woman, out the window. There was a tall redhead scanning the terminal.

She shrunk down in her seat. The driver was on board, settling into his seat. He clicked the radio on and began a droning announcement. Stacey crept up far enough to see over the old woman’s shoulder. Fear chilled her neck as she recognized Colleen, the Amazonian alpha. But the siren hadn’t spotted her. She held her breath.

The driver was finishing his spiel: “...and if anybody really hates my music choices, they are welcome to file a complaint...after they get off by the side of the road.” A few passengers chuckled. The driver’s voice clicked off, and was replaced by piped-in radio: Simon and Garfunkel. The 59th Street Bridge Song. “Feelin’ Groovy.”

Her breath escaped. Her cunt juiced. The music. On the far side of the window, Colleen’s head whipped around, pointed at the bus. Stacey groaned, low, and sank deep into her seat. Her damned hand was tugging up her skirt, and her brain was so heavy with the music, she could only watch herself, mortified and thrilled. The bus coughed once and settled into gear.

Stace lurched up and out of her seat, waking the old lady and startling other passengers on her feverish plunge down the aisle. As the bus began moving, she needed both hands to steady herself; so instead, she pressed her thighs together with each long step forward. Her free-flowing juice made each step feel like a wide-mouthed kiss against her pussy. She nearly came as she reached the front, and she cried out in frustration as the climax slipped away.

The driver hit the brakes. She grabbed a pole and swung round, so her ass smacked the dashboard as the bus stopped short. “I have to get off,” she blurted, but still so breathless, it was scarcely a squeak. The driver didn’t hear her; he was staring down—between her legs, which were, she realized, spread wide and facing up the aisle. Her tight skirt had ridden up ever so slightly—enough to protect her, maybe, when she wasn’t fully aroused. But she heard Rachel’s voice in her mind, praising her engorged pudenda. She could see in the driver’s eyes that he was getting the full show.

“Let me off!” She finally managed to shout.

Colleen was waiting for her calmly at the terminal. As the bus drew away, and Stacey remembered that her bag was still on board, the redhead reassured her: “We’ll lend you whatever you need, of course. We share everything.” Her tone was gentle, yet when she took Stacey’s arm and escorted her towards the street, the girl’s grip was like a vise.

As Colleen hailed a taxi, Stacey fought against the surges of lust that continued, even as the insidious song retreated from her mind. “It’s music, isn’t it.” She said defiantly. “That’s how you do it.”

Colleen raised an amber eyebrow and smirked. “My little troublemaker, haven’t you worked out by now that I don’t do anything? She does it all, and she does it very, very well.”

“Who’s she?” Demanded Stacey. But Colleen only laughed.

She opened the taxicab door for Stacey to climb in first. The cabbie was a Pakistani man with thick-rimmed eyeglasses. Before this week, he’d be the least attractive person in the world, to Stacey. Now, she found herself calculating the time it took for her to start thinking about the man sexually. Less than three seconds.

“Where we going missus?” Asked the man. Colleen dropped in beside her and replied. “Hunt House. 27 Alexander Crescent, please.”

Stacey squirmed away from the other girl, even though her hot loins urged her otherwise. “It’s Hunt,” said Stacey, “Isn’t it? Doctor Hunt. She’s—”

“Yes,” Colleen said casually. “Doctor Hunt is your patron. She’s arranged for you to pass this year with flying colours. Your whole degree, in fact, and whatever you want on the other side of it, too. Any city, any job. And the least you can do? To show her that you’re not an ungrateful little bitch? Would be to stop. Trying. To run.”

Stacey was shocked that the siren would be so plain-spoken, especially with the taxi driver right there. But there was more to come. Colleen unslung her purse and snapped it open as she talked. “Doctor Hunt rewards ingenuity, yes. And imagination. She loves enterprising girls who see opportunities and go for them. But above all, Stacey? She values obedience. We share everything. That’s rule Number One. And Rule Number Two?”

Stacey murmured the answer. “Curfew.” Her eyes flickered to the radio clock. It was a quarter to midnight.

Colleen nodded sternly. “You had all of us running all over town all night,” she said, “and if I hadn’t found you, we’d have all missed curfew on account of you. I think that’s a punishable offence, don’t you?” She punctuated the question by lifting an object out of her purse. Stacey drew in a breath.

She could feel the cabbie’s eyes in the rearview mirror, but her own eyes were glued to the immense red dildo in Colleen’s hand. The siren held it out to her. “We’ll get home with a few minutes to spare,” she said. “But why wait till midnight to begin your punishment? Take it.”

Stacey obeyed. “Put it in there.” Colleen flicked a finger towards Stacey’s cunt. With a molten wave of arousal and shame, Stace tugged her skirt up, spread her legs wide, and twisted the scarlet cock in deep between her lips.

Colleen leaned up to the front seat, past the driver, and turned on the radio. She searched the dial until it played a dance hit from the year before. Stacey couldn’t remember the name, and then she couldn’t think at all.

For the ten minute drive back to Hunt House, Stacey fucked herself incessantly. She nearly came a dozen times, but each time, frustration swallowed up release, and she grunted and cried as she rode another tide of lust. Colleen, meanwhile, was idly sorting through her purse. Stacey caught glimpses of chains, nipple clamps, and other torturous toys, the names of which she didn’t know. In the front seat, the cabbie sweated but said nothing.

Finally, they pulled up out front. The clock said 11:56. Colleen leaned in close to whisper in Stacey’s ear. “Stop fucking,” she cooed, and Stacey relaxed with a frustrated groan. “You’ll never get there by yourself. Do you understand? Never again. We share everything now. So you’re not going to run any more, and d’you know why? Because if you ran, you’d know that every time you feel it rising in you—and you’d feel it forever—you would never get release.”

“Please,” stammered Stacey. Tears burned her cheeks.

Colleen folded her arms. “First, I think our chauffeur deserves a tip for being so polite. Climb on up there, honey, and suck the man’s cock.”

Stacey groaned again, but the music and the dildo inside her were the two arms of a nutcracker that had crushed her will to shards. She scrambled rudely over the seat backs, to kneel in the front seat. The cabbie was momentarily shocked, but seemed to need no prompting. His eyes had already begun to roll back as he unzipped his fly and tugged out his rigid brown dick.

Stacey took the shaft as deeply as she could. Her need to obey seemed to trump even her gag reflex. One hand snaked down to fondle his balls, while her other hand snuck back to find the long, thick rubber end of the red cock that still clung to her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the digital clock on the dashboard flick to 11:57.

“Get your ass up in the air,” Came Colleen’s voice, weaving into the pop music like parts of a magic spell. She obeyed, thrusting her hips back rudely. Imagining the view from outside the passenger window. Giving herself over to her own whorish pose.

The cabbie gave a cry, and hot salty jism came pulsing from his cock. Stacey shoved the dildo all the way inside herself, hoping the man’s climax would somehow transfer to her, and lend her some blessed release—oblivion, if she was lucky, to erase this humiliation from her mind.

Colleen’s cool palm caressed Stacey’s buttocks. The siren must have heard her thoughts, because she said, “You won’t forget. He will, of course, when the Doctor gets done with him. But she lets you remember, Stace, because she loves you. We all love you.”

The clock flicked to 11:58. Colleen slid her index finger expertly in Stacey’s ass—the final indignity, but also the closed circuit. With her fellow siren fucking her at last, she plunged across a blinding threshold, and the force of twenty orgasms tore her mind away from her.

When she came to her senses, it seemed like hours had passed. She lay splayed awkwardly across the taxi’s seats; her ass still exposed; her cunt still stuffed with rubber; her lips sticky with semen. The cabbie was gone, though; she raised her head to see him stagger up the walk towards the house. Another victim.

Colleen was filling up her purse again. “Come along, then,” she said briskly, “We can get that monster out of you inside. Or maybe just reposition it. Your ass feels altogether too virginal.” She exited the car, trusting that Stacey would follow.

The dashboard clock read 11:59.