The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Moulding a Model Student

Annabelle Foster comes ten minutes late for her detention. Mud stains her torn school uniform, while her boots drag in dirt. When I tell her off, she rolls her eyes, and says, ‘Fucking God!’

‘What you mean,’ I say, ‘is: I am sorry, Ms Ishikawa.’

She sighs, blowing tobacco-ed breath on my face. ‘I’m sorry, Mzzzzz Bitchykawa.’ Before I can snap back, she’s taken her seat, her boots on the desk, and leaning on her chair’s back legs.

‘Who wants to teach the problem class?’ the headmaster told the staff at the beginning of the year. Whose lone hand shot up in that staffroom? Why, it belonged to naïve newbie Ms Stephanie Ishikawa. ‘How cute,’ thought the other teachers. ‘She thinks this’ll be like Stand and Deliver.’ And they were right. I thought the right teacher could tame the wildest student. Either that’s wrong, or I’m the wrong teacher.

I haven’t tamed a single student of the problem class of St Martha’s School for Young Ladies. These students all have eighteen years, but not a single mature temperament between them. I’m even grateful—grateful!—that Annabelle Foster actually showed up for detention. I don’t why she did, when she skipped her last ten. The only difference was that this eleventh time, I told her she was a ‘rude, undisciplined girl in need of an attitude adjustment.’ But that can’t have been the reason she came…

Annabelle takes out her phone.

‘Give me that,’ I say, holding out my palm.

She just stares.

‘You are not here to waste time,’ I say, ‘but for disciplining.’

After a deep breath in, Annabelle hands over her phone. I lay it on my desk. Annabelle’s new entertainment is carving her desk with her pen.

‘Look,’ I say. ‘Neither of us want to be here.’ She looks so Zen, vandalising her desk. ‘You’re in your final year at St Martha’s School for Young Ladies, and you’ve failed to become a young lady. I don’t think a detention will fix that. Let’s compromise.’

She stops penning her desk. ‘Yeah,’ she drawls.

‘Instead of sitting around for two hours,’ I say, ‘you can write fifty lines on the board. Just for my entertainment.’

‘Write what,’ she asks.

‘Oh, just: I hate being a rude, disobedient student.’

Her lackadaisical posture stiffens to a quivering petrifaction. ‘N-no fucking way!’ She’s pale! I know what I asked is unusual and embarrassing, but she looked as if I told her to bend over for a caning. Sheltered youth these days, eh?

‘Alright,’ I say, checking Annabelle’s phone’s clock. ‘One hour and fifty-four minutes.’

‘Al-fucking-right,’ she says, marching to the whiteboard. Or rather, tries to march. Her legs are too pale and wobbly. She takes a marker and starts writing, ‘I hate being a rude, disobedient student.’ As she writes, her breathing trembles; the words seem to strangle her ego.

For the first five lines, this goes on innocently. Then, behind my back, I fiddle with the heater remote. For every line, I up the temperature by one degree Celsius, until we hit thirty. With the windows and door shut, our room grows toasty.

Oh, poor, restless Annabelle, trying to write so quickly in this treacly heat. She fidgets and cannot keep her feet in one place, whimpering softly. The other teachers were right: This would not be like Stand and Deliver. I have more… direct methods for moulding the model student.

‘Oh, no,’ I say, ‘that won’t do.’ Her last sentence was a scrawl. ‘If I can’t read them, they don’t count.’ She swore, but weakly. ‘Centre yourself. Take a deep breath, and write slowly, slowly. Deep breath in… and deep breath out… in… and out… Let the words flow with your breaths.’

Accompanied by my cooing, she writes, ‘I hate being a rude, disobedient student,’ without complaint, too drowsy for complaint. But eventually, under the heat, my voice, and the regularity of her task, her writing grows lazy, her letters large and long. Each sentence trails into a line.

When it seems she’ll drop the marker, I tiptoed from behind, pressing my chest to her back and holding her writing hand in mine. ‘You’re doing very well,’ I say.

She smiles. When she’s all tuckered, she can look quite adorable. ‘Let me help you. Don’t resist, just let me lead you.’ As I guide her hand, her body melts into mine. ‘These words are so right, so obvious. You find yourself saying them as we write them.’

Her droopy mouth does its best to say, ‘I hate… being a… rude… dis… obedient… student…’ For ten lines, she sleepily slurred this mantra.

‘That’s very good,’ I say. ‘You hate being so rude and disobedient.’ I raise my free hand to snap her into a hypnotic sleep. ‘You wish you could relax into docility, melt into meek quiet mildness, so sleepy you could—’

Annabelle’s phone rings. Not some pleasant pop song, but roaring heavy-metal. Her body tenses against me. Her eyes flutter. As I grope on my desk behind me, I say, ‘And this is how it feels to be rude and disobedient. Your mind never rests. You hate this feeling.’

She whispers, ‘Yes,’ as I pick up the phone.

‘You want this rude, disobedient feeling to go away.’ She nods. ‘You want to,’ I say, silencing the phone, ‘SLEEP!’

Silence falls. Annabelle dissolves in my arms. For the first time in my three months teaching this hellion, this is the first time she’ll listen to me. I poured commands into her open mind, before leading her to her seat. I sit behind my desk, as she drools on hers.

I clap. ‘Wake up!’

Bleary-eyed, she wobbles to sitting position.

‘You may not sleep your way through detention.’

‘Oh, fuck off,’ she says, undoing her shirt’s top buttons. She uses an exercise book to fan her sweaty face and cleavage. ‘It’s fucking forty degrees in her.’ With an already dirty sleeve, she wipes her neck and forehead.

I turn off the heater, as I say, ‘I will have none of that language.’ Oh! I’ve always wanted to sound like an old matron. But the students always laugh at my scolding instead of falling in line. Well, I don’t think Annabelle will be laughing.

She looks me in the eye, and says, ‘Fuck off.’

‘That’s it.’ I stomp to her desk. ‘Stand up, young lady.’

Even as she rolls her eyes, the trigger takes over. She shoots to her feet. From the shifts of her waist and knees, and the straining expression on her face, I know she’s trying and failing to sit down.

‘Sit down, young lady.’

Her bum smacks the chair.

‘Stand up, young lady.’

She almost knocks the desk over.

‘Buck like a chicken, young lady.’

She buck-awws! Without my asking, she flaps her arms like wings. Buck! Buck! Buck!

‘Stop, young lady. See? You can obey.’

Her breath quickens, and, and—Did her eyelids flutter?

‘Stand in front of me, young lady.’

She comes out from behind her chair, too confused and scared for words.

‘Proper posture, young lady.’

Her legs snap together, as her back arches to jut her big breasts forward. Rage overcomes her confusion. She’s huffing when she says, ‘Don’t fucking tell me what to fucking do!’

‘What did I tell you about swearing?’ I take a counter from my pocket, and click twice for those last two ‘fuck’s. ‘Think of this as a swear jar. Every time you dirty your mouth, you add one unit to your penalty.’

‘What could you fucking do to me, bitch!?’ The tone of her voice. The look on her face. Outwardly defiant, but she knew I could do some fucking things to her.

I click the counter twice. ‘As a proper lady is one-quarter appearance, I think it’s time for a uniform inspection.’

With her body frozen at attention, she cannot resist my hands pulling at her skirt, fingering her blouse, caressing her waist, frisking her thighs. ‘Oh, dear, crumpled and dirty and torn. Not even tucked in! This is beyond repair. You’ll need a new uniform.’

‘I’ll buy one on the fucking weekend,’ she says, injecting some rebellion into her passivity.

I click once. ‘No. A proper lady cannot go in public dressed like this. Let me undress you, young lady.’

She doesn’t even protest as I undo her blouse buttons one-by-one, letting her full breasts and pleasingly plump belly touch the air. I pull down her skirt, and slip off her shoes and socks, leaving her in only mismatched bra-and-panties.

‘Put your hands behind your back. Keep standing straight until I return.’

She obeys, even though I didn’t use her trigger phrase. Look at her, so full of defiance and bashfulness. Adorable! Even when she calls me, ‘Cunt,’ it’s like a chihuahua barking.

I leave the room to retrieve the uniform I left stashed around the corner. (I wasn’t going to leave a half-naked student unsupervised!) Before entering the classroom, I put my eye to the door’s spyhole, which I had reversed this morning. There Annabelle is, still standing to attention. Oh! It seems she’s realising she has control over her body. She doesn’t break position too much—Maybe big bad teacher is around the corner.

I wait, and wait, and let her relax. She takes her arms from behind her back. Her posture sags. Her bum lowers to the desk behind her.

I fling open the door. Annabelle stands straight so fast she almost falls forward. I scold her, ‘What an undisciplined girl! Can’t even stand still for a few minutes.’

Right in her face, I click my counter thrice. She gulps and blushes with each click, until she remembers—she’s a rebel bitch, who ain’t gonna be whipped by some teacher’s clicker. She stamps her foot and bares her teeth, but her fearsomeness is undermined by her nudity.

I pat her head, and it’s like I dumped cold water on a pit-bull—feistiness extinguished. (I didn’t even hypnotise her to heel under my touch; it’s almost like she wants to submit.)

‘Don’t stamp,’ I say. ‘You’re a young lady, not an elephant.’

‘I’m, I’m not a young fucking lady,’ she says, as I click. ‘And you don’t get to treat me like this.’

‘Quiet, young lady.’ Her mouth zips shut. ‘I am your loving teacher. If you are not what I say you are, I will fix that.’

The terror in her eyes tempts me to lecture her more, tease her with the power I have. But my lecture stalls in my throat when I glance at her legs. Is she rubbing her thighs together? No sooner had I glanced than her legs still—if they had ever moved at all.

‘Put your new uniform on,’ I say, placing the clothes and shoes on the desk, ‘young lady.’

I had not gotten this uniform off the rack, but got it specially tailored. Annabelle blushes as she realises my specifications. Only the shoes are chaste. The blouse snugly fit her bust and curves. Her new skirt barely goes past her panties. She pulls down on her skirt’s hem.

‘You’ve a young lady’s modesty, at least,’ I say.

‘Knew you were a fucking dyke.’ Her homophobia lacks feeling. Just the last pellet of shit thrown by a dying animal.

That didn’t mean I’m going to let it slide. I click the counter thrice, once for the swear, twice for the slur.

‘Kneel, young lady.’

She winces as her knees hit the ground. I lean back on the desk behind me. I tell her to look me in the eyes.

‘You have a dirty mouth, Annabelle,’ I say. ‘Let’s see how dirty you can handle.’ Realisation rose in her as the hem of my skirt rose. For this, I had worn no hose or panties all day. ‘Lick me.’ I look at my counter. ‘For… thirteen minutes. If you don’t, I’ll rinse your mouth with soa—’

She lunges at me like a starved dog. No trigger at all. My stern teacher façade breaks under her lashes, shattering into moans and squeaks. Twitching and shaking, I accidently shoved over the desk supporting me. My arse smashes the ground, and I fall to my back, but just as quickly as pain washes over my pleasure, pleasure washes over my pain. I strain my neck up to see Annabelle on her hands and knees, still lapping at me. I lay down my head and close my eyes. She called me dyke, but she must have had practise for th- th- Mmmm…

Under her eagerness, I can’t last thirteen minutes. I try to keep the ending down, try to bury deeper the geyser Annabelle digs towards. She catches up. My legs tense, my torso twists, I scream, as I come.

When I recover, she’s still licking. ‘Y-you can stop,’ I pant.

‘But it’s not even been five minutes!’ She shut her mouth in mortification.

I grin, as it all comes together. All those blushes, and trembles, and stammers, and how easily she took to hypnosis. Deep beneath her rebellious front…

I sit up to take her chin between my hands. ‘Well, aren’t you a teacher’s pet.’ Her eyes flutter. ‘I knew, deep down, you were docile, attentive, and obedient.’ Each words wins a whimper from her. ‘Did you want this, young lady?’

‘Yes,’ she groans. ‘I’ve been, been waiting for a, a teacher, a police officer, my step-mom, someone to, to take charge. I was so, so bad because—’

I stroke her hair. ‘Because you were always the rebel, and couldn’t just stop. Submitting seemed so embarrassing. Admitting teacher knows best seemed so pathetic. But now you know better. And what do you hate being?’

She beams. ‘I hate being rude and disobedient!’

‘Very good.’ I guide us to our feet. ‘Being so polite and obedient feels good, doesn’t it?’ She moans in agreement. ‘As a treat for coming to your senses, you can suggest how we continue your education.’ I stoke her cheek, and move my lips close to hers.

Her breaths grows heavy. Our lips almost touch, but her mouth flies open.

‘Make me do my homework!’

Huh!

‘Do that “young lady” thing, and force me to do my homework.’ Her hands brush against the front of her skirt. ‘And look over my shoulder as I do it, telling me where I go, go…’ Her sentence dies in a moan as she rubs herself through her skirt. ‘And then, then, make me pick a university to aim for.’ Her other hand runs up her blouse. ‘Tell me I should pick up some extra-curricular activities, if I want, if I want—’ as she kneads her pussy and breast, her eyes roll back while moaning, ‘if I want to become a model student!’

Her legs buckle. I have to catch her lest she bang her head on a desk. She snuggles into my chest. ‘Thank you, Ms Ishikawa.’

I kissed her forehead. ‘Could I have expected less from my model student>’

To think, I spent so long leaning hypnosis, when I could have just worn a naughty schoolmistress costume. After a few swats with a cane, this former bitch would have rolled over and presented herself. But then, Annabelle is an easy case. She wanted to be tamed. The other young ladies in St Martha’s problem class will require deeper alterations.