The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The snowflakes hung motionless in the air about her as Clara walked across the parking lot, leaving a tunnel of empty air, and crisp black footprints behind her. As she couldn’t feel the cold, she walked with the front of her shirt open, feeling the snowflakes press against her skin as she pushed through them, her waved black hair floating out behind her in the empty air?

Clara sat glowering at the end of a stone bench, partly hidden by the overgrown greenery that formed part of the centerpiece of the Mall atrium. Occasionally she took a puff of a cigarette that was hidden, cupped in her hand, covered by a long, black lacey cuff.

She was ashamed. Ashamed partly at the pettiness of her rebellion; ashamed that while she struck an impressively well-achieved gothic style, she failed to cut much of a dash, with her short legs and round face.

Clara was not a pretty girl. But maybe she didn’t want to be a pretty girl; maybe she was one of those girls who mutilated her Barbie-doll in symbolic rejection of the consumer society. Maybe being a pretty girl was no more empowering than being a lesbian suffragette or a pimp.

Clara was no “Daddy’s little Princess”, either. But then again, she didn’t want to be that, definitely not. She couldn’t help feeling there was something a bit creepy about the relationships between some girls and their fathers. And it always seemed to be the ones that were the best dressed; that had the best cars; that had the biggest credit-card debts. She wondered how amny of those daddies harboured secret desires—and in how many cases they had been realised.

She watched a group of five girls; pretty girls, Barbie-dolls, Daddy’s Little Princess girls flutter and chatter by, wondering which ones had been touched by Daddy’s exploring hands, felt his rough stubbly chin against their soft skin, been assaulted, penetrated, violated. She wondered which ones were traumatized; which ones loved it, and kept coming back for more?

Clara was not that sort of girl. Her father was never closer than 1000 yards, by the terms of a court order protecting her mother.

The thought made her smile; Clara took a quick draw of her cigarette, and tipped her head back, resting it on the damp earth under the dark, leafy plants. She was rather surprised to find someone else’s head resting next to hers—someone on the bench on the other side was leaning back just like she was.

The mass of richly chestnut waves was flicked away by a slim pale arm, as the woman turned to look at her.

Clara was met with a face out of its time; framed by the long chestnut hair that as she laid her head back fell all around, the woman had large round dark eyes, high cheekbones, a strong but fine jaw and a broad, generous mouth; she looked as if she had tumbled out of an eighteenth century bodice-ripper.

Grinning into Clara’s eyes, she said:

“What were you thinking about?”

“Dark thoughts,” Clara replied.

“Go on,” said the woman, still smiling, but not, Clara couldn’t help thinking, at her; it was as if the woman had some wonderful funny secret, that kept her permanently warmly amused.

“Those girls,” Clara went on, raising her head a little to indicate with a nod the small group of Barbies currently clustered around the storefront display of a jeweler; they were chattering excitedly in front of the part of the window set aside for ‘overpriced and tasteless’; “they annoy me,” Clara continued. “Don’t they know how ridiculous they are.”

“No, they don’t; I’m quite sure they say the same about you,” said the woman, quietly.

Their heads were very close, and upside-down to each other. As the spoke, Clara felt the woman’s warm breath in her eyelashes. She also detected the tiniest hint of a European accent.

“They don’t say anything about me.”

“Don’t be so sure. Why don’t you ask them?”

“You know why; it would bore me, and it would bore them, eventually, once they’ve had enough of mocking me for being so desperate as to ask them such a thing.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

The woman got up and jumped, lightly, over the bench, landing sitting next to Clara. She got quickly up and walked over to the group of girls.

“Hey!” Clara called out, but it was too late. The woman had reached the girls, who were now oddly quiet, and had lost much, if not to say all, of their recent animation. The woman had taken one of them by the shoulders, and was propelling her over towards where Clara was sitting, trying to look even less conspicuous, trying to disappear into the shadows, as if she possibly could?

The girl seemed to be walking a little stiffly. The chestnut-haired woman sat the girl down, and turned her head towards Clara. The girl was staring dimly into the middle distance.

“Ask her anything you like,” said the woman.

“What did you??” Clara trailed off.

“Nothing special; something I think you could learn, too.”

“Yes but what?” the woman cut her off, this time with a gesture. Clara suddenly realized that her hand was in front of her mouth. It hadn’t been anywhere near just before.

“You did something with time.”

“Yes.”

“But I’ve already fantasized about that.”

“I know.”

“And I worked something out.”

“Oh?”

“If you’ve stopped time, even just within a narrow radius, we wouldn’t be able to see anything; light would be motionless, so there would be nothing but utter blackness.”

“Can’t argue with you there, Einstein,” the woman replied, still smiling, “but I don’t think that stopping time would be much use if you didn’t compensate for that sort of thing.”

“Well?” Clara asked, trying to sound as much as possible like a schoolteacher.

The woman laughed.

“There’s a practical explanation, and a mystical explanation. Which would you prefer?”

“Hit me with both, I’ll be equally skeptical.”

“The mystical explanation goes like this: all the light comes from within us. When we move ourselves out of time, the light that we see is a reflection of the light that shines from within, usually so faint as it is drowned out by the bright and all pervading lights of the universe, it bursts out brightly when unconstrained by Time; it perfuses whatever we touch, so that the air can move around us, and so that we can interract with objects, or even living things without destroying them; by will alone, we can shine the light into the mind and body of another, and by that we can bring them partly outside time, and interract with them a little.”

“You’re right, that is pretty mystical. It sounds good, but it isn’t terribly convincing.”

“The practical explanation is simply this: any technique used to move you outside time—to give you the impression that time has stopped—would be pretty useless if it didn’t account for all the problems that just brutally stopping time would cause. Indeed, the only way you can make time appear to come to a stop is by making yourself move very fast.

“The truth is, time is moving on, but very, very slowly. If I were to drop a coin, in a year you wouldn’t notice it moving more than a millimetre or two.

“The technique provides an alternative to vision—a kind of surrogate effect that is interpreted by your brain as if you were seeing. As for interracting with objects and people, there is a hysteresis zone around you; as you approach an object it gradually accelerates until it is moving at the same speed as you are.

“You can also, by an effort of will, extend your influence to more distant objects, but you can also control their behaviour, since you can control how and where the acceleration affects them.”

“So that’s what you’ve done to me?”

“Oh no. I haven’t done anything to you. When I started up my own time stop, you started yours instinctively.” The woman stopped to let it sink in.

“I’m doing this?”

“Yes. And now you’ve done it once, you can do it again and again.”

“I’ve always been able?”

“I suppose so. You just needed someone to show you how.” The woman came and sat down, on the other side of the strangely frozen girl. “Now what were those dark thoughts you wanted to ask her about?”

Clara turned to look at the girl. She had seen her around the place before, but Clara didn’t pay close attention to people’s faces once their clothes had announced all she needed to know about them. This girl was no exception to that rule: the pink platforms; the strategically ripped embroidered jeans with the laceup fly; the pink crop-top over a white t-shirt; the painted nails and the painted face; the honey-blond waxed into a feathered arrangement. It was a cute enough face; wide-set, tired-looking eyes, a short, narrow nose and a broad mouth, with full, heavily painted lips, shining in several different colors like an expensive paint-job.

“I want you to answer my questions truthfully. Do you understand?”

The girl’s voice was quiet, low and level: “yes.”

“Has your daddy ever fucked you?”

The girl’s face seemed to pull itself slowly, and with difficulty, through a whole range of expressions, before she replied, still quietly but somewhat explosively: “no!”

“How old are you?”

“Fifteen.”

“Younger than you look.”

“Has anyone ever fucked you?”

“No!”

“What about touching? Has anyone ever touched you, intimately?”

Quite without emotion, almost as if the answer was a surprise to the girl herself, she replied: “yes.”

“Who?”

“Both my parents.”

“When? Recently?”

“When I was a baby.”

Clara blinked, and withdrew her attention from the girl, who went back to staring dully into space.

“That was stupid,” she said.

“You got it out in the open; the question needed to be asked.”

“You mean I needed to ask it.”

“It makes no difference. You have been obsessing over thoughts of paternal incest. You need to get it out of your system. I should ask all of them if I were you.”

Clara got up, and walked over to the other four girls.

“Fifteen,” she said aloud, “and they’re all taller than me. It hardly seems fair. It makes me want to humiliate someone.”

“You can’t blame them for being taller than you.”

“I don’t. I blame them for being vapid and vacuous and other pejorative things beginning with ‘v’.”

“Just content yourself with the thought that they probably don’t know the meaning of ‘vapid’, ‘vacuous’ or ‘pejorative’.”

Clara laughed aloud.

“Besides,” the woman went on, “it isn’t as if you can’t do anything about your height.”

Clara let that remark pass; she still had unfinished business with the girls. But she was dissapointed; when she asked each of them in turn if they had ever been sexually abused by their fathers, the answer was always no—though she did find out that one of them had frequent and wholeheartedly consentual sex with her younger brother, and another had an on-off physical relationship with a female cousin—though she was quick to deny that she was a lesbian.

As Clara stood deep in thought, the chestnut-haired woman came over to join her.

“Not what you expected?”

“You were right; I was getting a bit obsessive. For a moment there I was thinking that I should ask every woman in the building. That would be neurotic.”

“So it didn’t fit with your worst fears?”

“Nor my best fantasies. Sexy, though. I always though of myself as kind of asexual—mostly because I hadn’t noticed how sexual my dark thoughts were. This one was telling me about having sex with her cousin. I almost started fancying her cousin myself. Not to mention her.”

“So what now?”

“You were saying something about my height?”

“Come with me.” The woman began striding off down the Mall.

Clara hurried after her: “what about the girls; should we put them back how they were?”

“They’ll never notice. The mind has an amazing way of glossing over the impossible; as soon as you think that noone will believe you you start doubting yourself.” She paused. “Well, they do, anyway. Not people like you and I. Come on.”

The woman led her into a shop, and brough her in front of a large full-length mirror.

“Let me show you what I looked like when I first found out about Time.”

They both stood, facing the mirror, and suddenly, in the mirror, Clara was standing next to a rather humble looking elderly woman, dressed in what looked like the worn-out remains of a colorful traditional dutch costume. Clara looked at the woman beside her, and then back at the reflection.

“I hadn’t long to live,” the woman began; “my husband had died a few days earlier; the cold finished him off, though the real cause of his death was that we had no more food, and since the death of our sons, no more hope, either.

“I was just hanging on, waiting for the end. And then it happened. One moment I was standing at the door of our little hut, watching the snow, and the next moment there were melted footprints in the snow, and I was holding a loaf of bread and a bowl of hot broth. I began to eat, almost without thinking about it, and by the time I had finished, the snow had stopped falling.

“I don’t mean it wasn’t snowing any more; it was snowing hard, thickly. But the snow had stopped in the air. It didn’t feel cold anymore. I suddenly understood. I’m dead, I thought. It was a relief. I sat down on the pile of rags that served for a bed, and as I relaxed, I noticed the snow starting, once again, to fall.

“Today, of course, I understand what happened. Someone else, who knew about Time, must have taken pity on me, and brought me the bread; I don’t know if they realised that I had it in me to understand, and I never found out who it was, but that brief experience was enough; enough to awaken the understanding in me.

“At first, I used it to get food. It was my most pressing need, at the time. Later, as my hope and experience grew, I began to use it for discreet acts of charity, and to help with resisting the invaders, and the victims of the war. This was a long time ago, you understand?

“I’ve learned a great deal, since then.

“There aren’t many of us, but enough that I sometimes spot the work of another, and sometimes we meet, and talk. Sometimes I find out that one of us has died. That’s usually pretty spectacular; the result of being careless or too experimental, or who knows what?”

“Anyway, what you look like is your choice.”

The reflection in the mirror returned to the stunning thirty-something with the face from the past, dressed like an extra in a 1960’s sci-fi movie; all flowing black silk and knee-length boots.

Clara looked at herself. She wanted to look the same, but just a bit stretched out, as like her reflection in a fairground mirror that was vertically concave (and which bore the legend above it: “Do you always seem to look fat when you look in the mirror? This is because store-bought mirrors are never perfectly flat, and actually are sold by people in the pay of the health-food and dieting industry, and are designed to make you look fatter so you’ll spend more money trying to look thinner! This is the only perfectly flat, true, honest mirror you’ll ever see. See yourself as others see you.").

Clara looked at herself. Her legs had elongated, her hips shrunk, her shoulders slimmed and straightened and her face was longer, thinner, and her features more clearly defined. She took off her floppy hat and let her long black hair cascade over her shoulders.

She began to laugh.

It was a rather different Clara that arrived at school the first Monday of the new trimester. She strode, head erect, rather than slouched, up the steps. Gone was the shabby black gothic, the black lace, the black dress with sequins, the black woolen shawl, the white fingerless gloves; instead, she was a vision in Gothick: brown leather boots laced from ankle to knee, and above, light brown stockings disappeared under a dark tweed skirt that was cut just above the knee; she wore a tight-fitting dark brown knitted pullover over a serious cross-your-heart bra, and over it a belt with a big golden buckle in the form of a scythe and an hourglass. Hanging open, in spite of the bitter cold, she wore a great brown tweed overcoat, with sparkling bass buttons, and her shock of wavy hair was indeed a shock, so black above all that brown.

The black fingerless gloves were replaced with pale brown kidskin that buttoned from wrist to elbow, a variation on the theme of her boots. Over her shoulder was loosely slung a russet bag in soft canvas.

Most of the other students didn’t recognise Clara. Those that did were either speechless or doubting the evidence of their own eyes.

Clara reached her locker, opened it, and began sorting through the chaos inside it. A lot of sorting was needed; she seemed to have accumulated a lot of crap. She pulled out a plastic bag and started shoveling the loose papers, candy-bar wrappers and other rubbish into the bag, until she felt a shadow fall across her, and a steady, if rather shrill voice say:

“I don’t think you should be rummaging through someone else’s locker!”

“But Miss Kobaily,” Clara began slowly,before she began slowly to turn around, with a grim, wicked smile on her face, “this is my locker.”

Miss Kobaily had been taller than her. She was, in point of fact, taller than most of the girls, and many of the boys. Clara was now looking levelly into her eyes.

“Ah. Miss. Caret.” she stammered.

“You didn’t recognize me,” Clara said, matter-of-factly, “don’t worry. I changed quite a lot, over the holidays.”

“Ah. I. See.” Miss Kobaily continued, disjointedly.

Clara remembered that someone was due for a little humiliation, and here before her was a prime candidate.

“Shall I see you in class, Miss Kobaily?” Clara asked, kindly.

“Yes. Indeed. And on time, for once.”

“Don’t worry, Miss Kobaily,” Clara replied, oozing reassurance, “as I said, I’ve changed. To be late would be almost impossible.”

Between morning classes, which were largely uneventful, and during which Clara was alert, attentive and responsive, Clara found time to visit the gym, and, as luck would have it, the captain of the men’s fencing team was there.

“I’d like to take up fencing.”

“Competitively?” he asked, and continued without waiting for a reply: “Normally I’d say you were starting a little late, but you have about you the air of a late bloomer. Besides, even if you don’t go in for competition, it’s an excellent workout; good for keeping you in the great shape that,” he slowed down a little as she took off her coat, “you seem already to be, in.” He walked across the gym to an unlocked weapon rack and tossed her foil. She swung it around experimentally.

“It’s rather light.”

“Yes, well, we usually start with the foil, but you do seem to be a quite,” he slowed down again as his eyes traversed her as she strode across the gym, “well, constructed young lady;” she felt a warm twinge of pleasure as he again took her in.

“The heaviest blade we use is the mansur,” he handed it to her carefully, and she flourished it with evident satisfaction, “we only use it for sparring and exhibition matches as it is rather dangerous. In Europe they’d be rather shocked at my offering it to a woman, but this is the twenty-first century, after all.”

The word ‘woman’ did something to her. Her sexuality had been so repressed before that she hadn’t known it was possible to have a physical response to another persons looks and remarks—she had always imagined that there would be a sort of mental satisfaction, but that physical pleasure would be physically stimulated. Her spice-coloured silk cammiknickers were damp. This time it was her turn to slow down:

“I have to get back to class,” she said slowly and deliberately, “when can you start teaching me to use this mansur?”

It dawned on him that she had been holding the blade at arm’s length for almost two minutes without any sign of tiring, so it didn’t even occur to him to suggest she start with something lighter or less dangerous. Indeed there was something about her; something faintly dangerous, but also rather innocent; someone, he thought, who doesn’t know her own strength. Mentally he cancelled all his previous plans for the evening.

“We can start at six pm.”

She flicked the sword over and caught it by the end of the blade, and handed it back to him.

He turned around rather quickly, and under the guise of fiddling with the locking mechanism of the rack, rearranged himself in the front of his tight fencing pants.

Miss Kobaily’s history class began more or less as normal, though Clara was still squirming a little in her chair at the thought of both the fencing captain’s attention and the thought of the effect she had on him. Clara’s distraction didn’t escape the attention of the teacher, either, and as Miss Kobaily was keen to reestablish her position after the morning’s slight embarrasment, she went on the offensive.

“Miss Caret, I wonder if you could tell me anything about the Franco—Prussian War.”

Clara realised that she had been caught out. However, she had found time to read all her coursebooks and many of the books in the citations.

“It was at least partly an artefact of the Polish expansion one hundred years earlier, in my opinion, but I suspect that’s not what you wanted to hear.”

“Indeed not,” the teacher replied, somewhat taken aback, “however it’s good to know you’ve been reading the literature. We were in fact discussing the nature of the german enthusiasm for expansion.”

“Ah,” Clara replied, “well, it is often said that the creation of greater Germany after the war was the symbolic act that both acted as a basis for later German nationalism, but which also sowed the seeds of the national identity crisis that fuelled Hitler’s rise to power?”

“Yes, well, we weren’t taking quite such a broad view. You really haven’t been listening, have you.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Kobaily. I know it’s frightfully rude of me, but it was something you said a few minutes ago, about the Prussian succession: don’t you think that things would have been better if Helm III had survived?”

Mentally, Miss Kobaily rocked on her heels. The Caret girl had always been a problem child; bright enough, hardworking when she put her mind to it, but innatentive, distant, monsyllabic and churlish. In a sense, what she was doing now was still a sort of churlishness, just much much more polite.

Miss Kobaily began to speak again, but the top button of her sensible black blouse sprang off and clattered away under the desks somewhere. Flustered, she bent over to look for it, and the second button popped of so fast that it ricocheted off the floor and smacked her in the eye.

A little dazed, she sat down on the desk rather carelessly, her a-line skirt riding up and treating the class to a view of her sensible white panties.

Clara was still feeling naughty, and Miss Kobaily, for all her forty-something, staid, bookishness, was not a bad looking woman. She probably just needed a little relief.

Time slowed to a crawl. Clara got up and walked to the desk where the teacher sat, completely motionless. Barely thinking of the consequences, Clara reached up the teacher’s skirt and pulled her panties down to her ankles and off over her shoes; she looked around for a place to put them, and found the teacher’s handbag. She stuffed the panties in. Then she went back to the teacher and reached inside the now partly open blouse, and unhooked the sensible (if rather the worse for age) bra, then pulled it down at the front so her small, full-ish breasts would be on show should she lose another button. Then she extended Time into the teacher’s body:

“Answer truthfully, always: I expect you could do with some relief?”

“Yes.”

“Been a while since you had any sex?”

“Yes.”

“I expect one of these energetic young men could oblige you, if you wanted.”

“Yes, though?”

“Though what? They wouldn’t want to or you wouldn’t?”

“Well, both, I suppose.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

Before going back to her seat, Clara said: “I expect you still feel a little dizzy; better sit still for a minute or two.”

As she sat down, she heard Miss Kobaily’s voice slowly speed up again;

“Ooorry I feel a little dizzy. I’m just going to sit still for a moment.” As she gestured to the class, the third button finally gave way, and those in the front two rows had an unrivalled view of their teacher’s breasts and if not a clear view of her pussy, they could clearly see that she wasn’t wearing any knickers.

Clara let a stunned minute pass, before slowing Time to a stop again and going round the class from boy to boy, feeling their crotches to find which one had the hardest hardon.

It turned out to be Tim Gray, a sort of sports-geek; fit and well built enough for football, and obsessive about the rules, but something of an outcast among the mainstream jocks as he did rather too well in his math classes. He even had one hand on the front of his jeans. Clara questioned him.

“You like older women?”

“Yes.”

“Have you had sex with an older woman?”

“Yes.”

Clara was a little surprised. In a classroom of sixteen year olds you expected one or two early developers, though.

“Who?” “My mom and her sister.”

“Wow. Good?”

“Yeah.”

“Often?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Only when they drink. They always get ashamed afterwards and apologise for exploiting me and buy me gifts.”

“Rough,” said Clara.

“Yeah.”

“But you like her?” said Clara, indicating the teacher.

“She’s not bad, you know. Doesn’t do herself any favours, but you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” Clara agreed, kindly.

“Well she needs, you know, relief. Stay behind after class and ask her if there’s anything you can do for her.”

“Will do.”

As the class filed out and headed off to the canteen, or wherever else they were bound, they were all talking about only one thing; Miss Kobaily fainting and showing that she wore no knickers.

Clara stayed inside, and closed the door quietly. She winked at Tim, even though she knew he wouldn’t remember the little interrogation. He ignored her, and got up, walking over to the desk where Miss Kobaily still sat.

“Yes Mr Gray? Is there something I can do for you?”

“I was wondering if you were OK. In fact,” he said, coming closer, and continuing slowly, “I was wondering if there was something I can do for you?”

There was a moment of understanding; brief, but sure, between them. She leaned forward, and began undoing his trousers, and whispered in his ear: “be brief, be firm, and tell noone?”

Clara slipped out as Miss Kobaily began moaning: “Tim, Tim, Tim?”