The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

1

Fiona stifled a yawn. English class came just after lunch, and the room always felt stuffy and too warm, and it was hard to concentrate. Her jaws moved a little, but she managed to keep her lips together. Even so, Professor Richard Barnes darted her a twinkle-eyed look that told her he had noticed how bored she was. “So,” he said, “as we now have learned Keats is especially noted for his rich use of varied types of imagery. Someone give me an example of tactile imagery in this poem. Now does everyone remember what tactile means?”

“Touch,” someone said.

“Touch or the sensation of feeling,” Professor Barnes agreed. “Very good, Miss Adams.”

Fiona glanced away from him, staring down at her notebook, hoping he wouldn’t call on her. Not that he was so hard to look at: he couldn’t be more than thirty-five, with an untidy tousle of black hair and startling blue eyes. His habitual expression suggested that he saw the jokes in life, and that he had an ironic appreciation for them. Slim, broad-shouldered, always looking casual but kind of sharp, too, today he was wearing jeans, a gray-blue pullover shirt, and a dark gray sports jacket. Lots of the other girls at St. Incundita’s giggled and fantasized about him, but that was probably to be expected since he was the only male teacher in an all-girl school.

“All right, someone give me an example of a tactile image. Let me see who hasn’t answered recently . . . Miss Sullivan?”

Damn. “Um,” Fiona said, staring down at the poem in the textbook.

“This shouldn’t be hard for an Incundita girl,” teased Professor Barnes. “An example of an image that suggests touch or a sensation of feeling. Just quote the appropriate lines, Miss Sullivan.”

“Um, is it ‘Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast, To feel for ever its soft fall and swell’?”

Professor Barnes gave her that eyebrow-lifting ironic smile. “Very good, Miss Sullivan, though I expect the verb ‘to feel’ was rather a dead giveaway. Tell us what picture the line presents, please. Interpret the lines in your own words for us.”

“Um. Okay, the, the man in the poem—”

“The speaker.”

“Right, the speaker, he’s like lying down with his head on his, um, on the woman’s, you know, chest, and he feels it when she breathes.”

Some of the other girls tittered, but Professor Barnes held up his hand. “Not as eloquently expressed as the way Keats put it, but yes, that’s the idea. Keats’s speaker wishes to live forever, lying in bed with his sweetheart, she asleep, his head on her breasts as though they were soft pillows. Why is that?”

Fiona was glad to have a question she could answer with no hesitation. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t find the situation a little puzzling, in the light of what you know about boys?”

More tittering from the other students. Fiona didn’t dare confess that she knew practically nothing about boys. “No, it’s just what Keats says in the poem, that’s all.”

“Nothing unusual about the speaker’s expressed wish to live forever with his head resting on his sweetheart’s breasts? Perhaps her naked breasts? Does that not sound the least bit odd to you?”

“Not really.”

Professor Barnes sat on the edge of his desk, swinging one leg. “Well, let’s think about that for a minute, Miss Sullivan. Now, it would seem that Keats’s speaker would wish for a consummation of their love, wouldn’t it? Isn’t that what all boys want?”

“You got that right,” Cathy Carson whispered, and even more of the girls giggled.

“It would seem that the expectation, the normal expectation, would be for Keats’s speaker to wish to be in the act of intercourse, wouldn’t it? Actually making love to this beautiful unclad woman? On the point of orgasm, or maybe actually having an orgasm? Why would he wish to live forever merely nuzzling his sweetheart’s perky breasts, perhaps idly nibbling her erect nipples?”

Fiona bit her lower lip and shook her head, feeling a hot blush spreading across her face.

“All right, you’re off the hook. Good answer in pointing out the image, though.” He made a check mark in his attendance book. “Let me call on someone else for elaboration. Miss, let me see, Miss Pearson?”

“Shit,” whispered black-haired Deirdre Pearson, who was sitting directly behind Fiona. More loudly she said, “Maybe he’s the kind of guy who likes the anticipation better? You know, some people like to daydream about sex all the time. There are even those what do you call ‘ems, the guys who just like to watch. Maybe Keats’s guy is like that.”

“Interesting,” Professor Barnes said. “I believe the word you are seeking is ‘voyeur,’ but though the poem does express a wish that the speaker could be as steadfast as a star watching the world turn beneath, Keats does not add ‘so I could watch stripped-down couples doing the nasty.’”

“No, sir,” Deirdre agreed.

“But on the other hand, I think you may be on the right track when you say the speaker enjoys the anticipation better than the actual act of love. Why would his anticipation of a sexual climax be more satisfactory to him than the real thing?”

When no one answered, he turned a couple of pages in the textbook. “Consider this, ladies. In another poem, Keats praises a Grecian urn because it presents a picture of a lover and his sweetheart who are both nude, leaning toward each other, just about to kiss—but since it’s only a picture, they can never actually kiss. They are an inch apart forever. Here’s how the speaker praises that scene of unfulfilled passion:

“Forever warm and still to be enjoyed, Forever panting, and forever young; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.”

Fiona sighed, wondering if she would ever understand English poetry.

Professor Barnes glanced up at the clock. “Two minutes to go. I don’t think we’ll accomplish much in that time. All right, ladies, read the remainder of Chapter 5 for Tuesday. Remember, next week you’ll be writing an essay explicating a Keats poem for me, so do the reading and make some notes. Work together if that helps, but make sure you understand what you read. Dismissed.”

“Burning forehead and parching tongue,” Cindy Lane grumbled to Fiona as they collected their books. “Huh. I’d rather have a burning tongue working on me.”

“Cin,” Fiona pleaded, feeling her blush grow hotter. Her roommate was full of impertinent observations like that. Well, she had had experience, while Fiona hadn’t.

“Oh, come on, you—you virgin,” Cindy said. “I forgot how totally untouched you are.”

It was a crisp fall day. A little cool since both girls wore the uniform of St. Incundita’s College for Women: short plaid skirts, a white long-sleeved knit top, pantyhose, and shoes with three-inch heels. You could tell the upper class girls by their shoes: by the time you were a senior, you wore six-inch spikes. At midterm they would change to the warmer winter outfit, which included tight-fitting, stretchy slacks. They crossed the quadrangle to the library. In early October, the maples blazed scarlet beneath a clear sky. Fiona hugged her books to her chest as she followed Cindy’s clacking footsteps up the marble steps and into the library lobby. Cindy stopped at the front desk and came back with a study room key. “Come on,” she sighed. “Might as well hit the books. Keats died at the age of 26. If he’d died about six years earlier, we wouldn’t have to worry about his stupid poetry.”

Fiona checked her watch. It was five past one, which meant she had nearly two hours before her least favorite class. “Right.”

The study room was spare and small, maybe ten feet square, with a central table, four battered old wooden chairs, and one thin window looking out over the long hill sloping down to the campus lake. Cindy kicked off her shoes and dug out her lit book. She plopped it down on the scarred table top. Over the years the students of St. Incundita had covered the wood with ballpoint graffiti, ranging from names to some very impressive artwork, much of it involving couples that had obviously decided the act of love was better than any anticipation could be. “Okay, Keats.”

“Uh, Cin?” Fiona looked down at her book, turning to chapter 5. “Could I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” Cindy said. “’Ode on a Grecian Urn,’ huh? Lame.”

“Why did you come to St. Incundita?”

“I got sentenced to spend four years here,” Cindy replied. “My dad yanked me out of State and sent me here. Hell of it is that I only had six credits at State, and three of them didn’t even transfer here, so I blew most of a whole year there. It was just too hard for me to study there.”

“Why?”

“Coed school. I love the guys too much, as my dad found out.”

“How’d he do that?”

Cindy raised a brown eyebrow. “He caught me screwing around.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” Cindy gave her a wicked grin. She was a striking brunette with deep brown eyes and a healthy bust line that Fiona frankly envied. “See, my boyfriend and me were together in my room and my dad barged in.”

“That doesn’t seem so bad.”

“We were both kinda naked.”

“Really?”

Cindy winked. “Naked and in bed together in my room. I didn’t know that Dad was gonna come waltzing in with a new laptop computer. Early birthday present, this was back last spring, in early May.”

Fiona tried to imagine Cindy naked in bed with a guy. It made her own lips feel a little parched. “I guess you couldn’t talk your way out of it?”

Cindy shrugged. “Not much chance of that. Benjy had his cock balls-deep in my cunt, and I had both heels on his shoulders. Dad had a terrific view of Benjy’s balls bouncing on my round ass. He gave us both hell. I don’t think Benjy will ever get an erection again without thinking of all the things Dad said he was gonna do once he chopped off his cock and balls.”

Fiona’s face felt as if it were on fire. “Oh.”

“He didn’t chop them off, silly. But Benjy went hopping out in the hall with his shorts on and just one leg down his pants.”

“That must have been awful.”

“Yeah, and the worst of it was that I was just about to come, too,” Cindy said with a chuckle. “Damn, I want a guy’s cock! This place makes me so goddamn horny. All these girls around, and hardly any guys. I’m about ready to try some lady-licking as a substitute. Or maybe make a dildo in art class and smuggle it back to the dorm. Ah, shit. After mid-term, when we get permission to go into town, I’m gonna see if I can’t hook up with some stud—you’re all red in the face.”

“I don’t know what’s the matter with me,” Fiona confessed. “All the way through high school I sort of suppressed my feelings. Now I’m like you. I keep thinking about sex all the time. I even have—dreams.”

“Dreams about having a cock in your pussy?”

“Sort of. But I’ve never—well, you know. And so it always ends with the guy getting ready to, but he doesn’t. He just sort of presses against me and I’m all ready, and then I wake up wet.”

“That’s a real chill. And you don’t masturbate for relief.”

Fiona swallowed. “No. That’s dirty.”

“It is the way I do it,” Cindy replied with a laugh. “Come on, Fiona, you’re a normal girl. You’re even pretty, with your nice blonde hair and your blue eyes. You could be gorgeous if you’d let me show you a few things about makeup.”

“No point,” Fiona said. “No guys around.”

“Maybe after midterm, when we finally get to go into town. So what’s your story, Fi? How’d you wind up an inmate at St. Incundita’s College for Women?”

Fiona rested her chin on her hand. “My stepmother talked my dad into sending me here.”

“Too bad.”

“Well, she’s an alumna.”

Cindy wriggled her toes. “I guess it’s possible to survive four years at St. Incundita. So where’s your real mom?”

“She died when I was ten.”

Cindy looked contrite. “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought your folks were divorced.”

“No, my mom died in a car wreck. Dad remarried when I was fifteen.”

“You get along with her?”

Fiona shrugged. “We get along okay. She’s younger than my real mom. She was just twenty-two when Dad married her, so she’s twenty-six now. Kinda like an older sister more than a mom.” Fiona didn’t add that Diane, her step-mom, even looked like a sister, with blonde hair and blue eyes. But a much lusher figure.

“So,” Cindy said, “is this like Cinderella? Does your stepmother hate you?”

“No,” Fiona said slowly. “Diane is very nice. I can see why my dad married her. She just lives to make him happy, I think. She’s very, very sweet. But she isn’t much like my real mom.”

Cindy wriggled her toes. “God, my feet hurt. I totally hate these shoes. Look, Fiona, you give me a foot massage and I’ll read the poetry and we’ll talk about it, okay?”

“Okay.” Fiona moved around, and Cindy put her hose-clad feet in her lap. Fiona began to rub their soles as Cindy read “Ode on a Grecian Urn” in a halting voice, pausing every now and then. “What the hell does ‘sylvan’ mean?”

Fiona began to answer, but before she could say anything, Cindy muttered to herself and pushed more upright in her chair. “Just a minute.” Cindy pulled her feet away, stood, took a quick look at the closed study-room door, and shucked down her panty hose. “This will make it easier for you.” She dropped the hose onto an empty chair, settled back down, and put her feet back in Fiona’s lap.

Fiona couldn’t get over how dainty and delicate Cindy’s bare feet were, pink and soft. She bent the flexible toes back and forth and worked her thumbs over the arches. “You asked about the word sylvan. I think it means ‘rural.’”

“Then why the hell couldn’t old Keats say that? Okay, let’s see what we got: a vase with pictures on it of guys and girls going to some kind of weird-ass sacrifice in olden times. And this horny couple about to kiss, but they can’t, because like old man Barnes said, they’re just a picture. Mm, that feels so good, don’t stop.”

Fiona laughed as Cindy flexed her toes, holding on to her fingers for a moment in a clasp that felt like a child grasping her hand. “So the speaker says if the two lovers, you know really, uh, really—”

“Fucked,” Cindy put in helpfully.

“Um, yeah, then they’d kind of have a headache and a parched tongue after.”

“Keats must not have fucked very much, then,” Cindy said. “It’s not like that at all.”

Fiona looked out the window. The lake shimmered silver in the afternoon sunlight. Cindy’s feet flexed gently in her grasp. “What is it like?” she whispered.

“What? Fucking?”

“Yeah,” Fiona whispered. “I’ve never—but you know, I’ve thought about it. Wondered about it.”

“It’s really, really nice,” Cindy said, stretching her pink toes. “It’s fucking fantastic if the guy knows how to do it right. You ever give a guy a hand job? Ever sucked one off?”

Fiona bit her lip and shook her head. “I’ve kissed,” she said. “A little. But I’ve never seen a guy, you know, um, naked. Not in real life. Just statues and paintings.” She took a deep breath. “It always seemed sort of dirty to me. You know, a girl should save herself for when she wants to get married to the right guy.”

“Whatever.”

“So how does a man’s, you know, how does it . . . feel?”

“Cock, you mean?” Cindy shrugged. “Different ones are sort of different shapes and sizes. Most guys are circumcised, which means their cocks are sort of these fleshy tubes with a big bulgy head on them. I’ve been with one guy who wasn’t circumcised. He had a foreskin and all.”

“What’s that?”

“Kind of like a sheath of skin that covers the head, until the guy gets hard. I liked to watch that guy get an erection, actually. It was a turn-on to see that thing begin to twitch, then stand up, and the skin would peel back from the round head as it swelled up. An uncircumcised cock feels different inside you, too, ‘cause the skin slips back and forth a little, giving you a different sensation, really kinda funky and interesting. Anyway, Benjy had a nice circumcised cock, not all that long, but pretty thick, so it really stretched me out.” She held up her hands so her fingertips were about six inches apart. “’Bout this long, with a big purplish head like a plum at the end. And it feels sorta hard but spongy, too, and the head gets real, real smooth when it’s all excited. It’s so nice to run your tongue over it and taste it and feel the texture. When it goes inside you, mm, it fills you right up. Damn, I’m getting wet.”

Fiona’s face was flaming. “Yeah, uh, let’s go through the poetry. I shouldn’t be talking about this kind of thing, anyway. It’s nasty.”

“No, actually it’s very nice. You’ll find out one day.” Mischievously, Cindy moved her right foot up so that her toes briefly caressed Fiona’s right breast. “You’ll find out.”

2

At a few minutes before three o’clock, Fiona left the library and walked across campus to the gymnasium for her final class of the day. This was the class she felt the strangest about: physical education. Beginning swimming, to be exact.

Not that she was afraid of the water. But the college had such strange dress requirements.

Fiona checked in at the desk and the student assistant went to the cubbyholes behind her and found Fiona’s custom-made swimsuit, wrapped up inside an envelope of tan paper. All the girls got sized for the regulation suits during orientation week, actually having moulage molds made from their naked bodies, and they all had to wear the special suits for phys ed.

They were weird swimsuits. The assistant handed the package to Fiona and gave her a couple of thick towels and a small spray can. “Here ya go.”

“Thanks,” Fiona muttered.

She took the package to the locker room. Her partner Shanese, a black girl, was there already. “Hey, girl,” she said. “Thank God you’re here. I can’t get this damn thing on by myself. You help me and then I’ll help you.”

She had already opened her package and had taken out her swimsuit. Shanese stripped, then sat on a bench and held her brown feet out in front of her. “Okay, let’s go.”

Fiona dropped a folded towel to the concrete floor and knelt on it. She took the spray can, shook it, and then sprayed lubricant over Shanese’s feet and calves. The stuff was silicone based and was so damn slippery that you’d fall if you tried to stand up after your feet had been treated. The only place you could stand up was in the shower room, which had a coarsely-textured floor. When you tore off the suit after P.E. you could shower the lubricant off, and if you were smart, you waited until you were in the shower to strip off the suit. Then Fiona took the bottom half of the swimsuit—it was bubble-gum pink, because Shanese, like Fiona, was a first-term freshman—and tugged it over Shanese’s feet, straightening it and rolling the latex up over Shanese’s curving calves. “Is that okay?” Fiona asked.

“Yeah, that’s good. Okay, I can stand up now. Spray me and I’ll get mine on, then help you.”

Fiona used the spray can to lubricate Fiona’s lower half, her thighs, her gleaming milk-chocolate ass cheeks, her tummy and, well, her bare, pouting pussy. Fiona pulled the latex pants up over her thighs, over he hips, and then straightened the waistband. The latex stretched into near transparency. The dark cleft of her ass showed clearly, and the tight rubber outlined her pussy.

Then it was time for the top. Fiona sprayed Shanese’s hands, her arms, her back, her tits. She helped Shanese work the latex sweatshirt over her head, helped her get her fingers into the built-in gloves, and then helped tug the tight garment down over her boobs. “God damn,” Shanese said. “I swear my titties are growing. I’m gonna have to ask them to resize me.” Last of all, Fiona pressed her thumb over the zipper-like seal that ran around the waist, locking the top to the bottom and making the suit watertight.

Fiona was undressing now. She remembered how strange she thought it when the P.E. instructor had told the whole class they would have to shave everywhere, even their pubic hair, for reasons of hygiene. The girls had all sort of grumbled about that, but the upper class students had laughed at them. “Just get a wax and get it over with,” one of the juniors had advised Fiona, so she had gone to the campus spa and had had the painful procedure done. She was going to have to repeat it soon, though her own public growth had never been dense and was coming back even sparser than before.

Naked, she sat on the bench and let Shanese spray her feet and legs. Then Shanese tugged Fiona’s specially made latex suit over her feet. This was the only time she would wear it. The suits were made new twice each week, once for each P.E. class. After the class, you simply tore the suit off and discarded it, not so easy to do because it was fantastically stretchy, but if you pulled hard enough, you could split it, and then it peeled right off. Shanese had the suit up to her knees now. “We’re gonna look like pink sisters,” she said. “Least from the neck down we are. Stand up.”

Fiona got to her feet and felt the cool spray of lubricant on her butt and then around on her front. Shanese gave her a good, generous coating. She wasn’t nearly as shy about it as Fiona was, and she showed no self-consciousness when she tugged the suit bottom up into place, running her palm over the thighs and even over Fiona’s pussy to work wrinkles out. Fiona squirmed a little. The suit had a seam right in the crotch, and it seemed to her that every week the seam was a little thicker and parted her pussy lips a little more.

Then the top, rolling down to confine her breasts. Fiona rolled the latex down and began to seal the waistband as far as she could reach. Shanese thumbed the back part closed, and they were dressed out, if you could call it that. Then Fiona stood up and looked at Shanese. Behind the black girl, the other swimming students were almost through suiting up. They all looked bubble-gum pink from the neck down, even Amee Chan, the Chinese girl.

But they all looked more naked than naked. The tight latex molded itself to nipples, to pussies, to asses. You could see through it. They did look oddly like pink sisters from the neck down. Even similar from the neck up, since they all had to wear their hair short to meet the St. Incundita dress code. Fiona moved her arms, flexed her legs, feeling the tight cling of the latex everywhere. It was hot, despite its thinness.

And when you moved, it felt fucking wonderful. It contained body heat, and the lubricant layer and sweat made it slip slightly over your skin, stimulating your nipples, your, well, you know, down there. The class went out into the pool area, where Ms. Jorgen, the swimming instructor, already waited. “Okay,” she said. “In the water.”

She was about thirty, with blonde hair cropped very short, much shorter than the girls’ hair. A butch cut, almost. Her latex suit was white, with a red capital I distorted by her big bust: I for Instructor, Fiona assumed. Or Incundita.

Sixteen pink-latex coated girls hopped into boob-deep water. Ms. Jorgen walked around the edge of the pool and sat on the rim, legs spread, hands on her knees. Fiona felt hot again. You could see the outline of Ms. Jorgen’s pussy, every line clear. You could even see the form of her clit. “Count off by twos,” she said.

Shanese said “One,” and Fiona immediately said “Two.” The girl next to her was a one again, the next girl a two.

“All right,” Ms. Jorgen said. “Ones, crawl stroke over to me. Twos, walk along beside them and coach. Ready?” She put a silver whistle to her lips, paused and then gave a shrill blast.

Shanese kicked off and started to swim, a flailing and inefficient crawl stroke. “Easy,” Fiona said, walking along beside her, enjoying the strange feeling as the water made her latex-clad breasts buoyant. “Don’t fight the water. Breathe when you’re looking back.”

Shanese was a little afraid of water, but she was catching on. Toward the end, she pulled ahead and Fiona stared for a moment at her buttocks, round and glistening and dark beneath the pink latex, as Shanese made the last few feet to the far edge of the pool. She turned with a big white grin. “Hey, I did it that time! All the way across!”

“Rest a minute,” Ms. Jorgen said. “Okay, twos, you swim back. Ones, coach them.”

“Go, girl,” Shanese said.

Fiona could already swim a little, and she took the stroke nice and easy. It was fantastic the way the stretch and cling of the latex stimulated her. With every stroke, she felt it cup her breasts, and with every kick the seam worked its way between her pussy lips and pressed against her clit. Shanese had very little to say. Fiona reached the far side of the pool ahead of the others and sank down with her back against the pool wall, settling so the water was just under her chin. Furtively, she raised a hand and caressed her own breast, feeling the taut pressure of the nipple. Even through two layers of latex, one on palm, one on boob, it felt wonderful, and pressing the springy bud into the softness of her breast, she wondered if a guy’s cock felt anything like this. Smooth, Cindy had said. Spongy. Mmm.

Her pussy felt wet. It wasn’t a leak in the suit.

What would a guy think if he saw her in this swimsuit? She imagined sitting next to a man, casually dressed in this see-through latex. If he touched her at all, she would feel it. If he wanted to—well, you know, put his, his thing into her, he wouldn’t even need to take it off her, because the suit would stretch and stretch and it wouldn’t really be like he was inside her, but it would feel like it.

“When you’re ready, Miss Sullivan,” Ms. Jorgen said.

“Oh. Sorry. Sorry.”

“All right. Now I’m going to demonstrate the breast stroke. Gather around, all, and watch.”

They formed two lines as Ms. Jorgen slid into the water. She swam across the pool between the lines.

Oh, God. Her suit was so damn thin. Her back and ass were. . . Fiona swallowed.

They were fucking beautiful.

3

By bedtime, an exhausted Fiona was more than ready to collapse into sleep. Cindy lay propped up in bed, working on her college algebra homework with a calculator and a spiral notebook. “I’ll be finished in a minute,” she said. “Just this one word problem left.”

Fiona lay back on her bed, yawning so widely that her jaw creaked. “At least we just have two classes tomorrow,” she said. Traditionally at St. Incundita, the weekend began at noon on Friday. There were no afternoon classes, and the students could relax until Monday morning. Of course, freshman students weren’t allowed to leave campus until after mid-terms, and even then they had to maintain a B average in all their classes or lose their privileges. The upper class students could have cars on campus and sometimes went off for entire weekends. The freshman class could only dream. Funny the way St. Incundita’s College for Women kept the classes so firmly apart. There was a freshman dorm, a sophomore dorm, a junior dorm, and a senior dorm. Classes were encouraged to stick together. Friendships between classes were not easy to form, and the administration broke them up when they became aware that girls were forming attachments that cut across the class years.

From across the room Cindy gave a grunt of satisfaction. Fiona heard her pack her notebook and calculator away, and then the lights clicked out. Simultaneously the music came on. That was one thing about the dorm rooms: whenever the lights were oft, soft, soothing music played. It wasn’t trendy or exciting, but it was very soothing. The music made slipping into sleep easy. It was almost hypnotic.

“How was swimming?” Cindy asked.

Fiona yawned again. “Oh, you know.”

“I like the exercise suits, though,” Cindy said. Her P.E. class was bicycling. Fiona had seen them on the bike trail, sixteen girls sealed tight in bubble-gum pink latex, their ass cheeks flexing as they leaned their swinging rubber-coated boobs over the handlebars of the bikes. “Make you real hot, but they also make you sweat out the calories. I’ve lost four pounds since September.” She sighed. “I’m gonna have to have another cast made of my top, though. My tits really are bigger than they used to be.”

“Funny,” Fiona replied. “Shanese thinks her breasts are growing, too.”

“It’s that protein drink they give us in the lunch room,” Cindy replied in the darkness. “Oh, sure, laugh, but Belinda Markheim told me. She’s a senior. You know all the seniors are D-cups or bigger. Protein drinks. That’s why.”

“I hope they’re right,” Fiona said sleepily. “I’m just a B-cup myself.”

“More than a mouthful is superfluous,” Cindy pronounced with a chuckle. “Hey, I made up my mind. I’m gonna go to the spa for electrolysis tomorrow afternoon. Want to come with?”

“I don’t know,” Fiona muttered.

“Oh, come on. I’m not going through the torture of another waxing, and shaving your pussy is such a bore. Anyway, you never had much more than a little blonde fuzz down there. You’ll never miss it.”

“Let me think about it.”

“Not as if your old man has to pay extra for it,” Cindy murmured in a sleepy voice.

That was true. St. Incundita was an expensive college. Fiona had been very surprised when her dad had readily agreed to her stepmother’s suggestion that she should go there. Mr. Sullivan was successful—he owned a brokerage firm, and he had plenty of money. But like many self-made rich men, he was also very stingy, and although Fiona could have earned a scholarship at a state university, scholarships were not available at the pricey, private St. Incundita. Mr. Sullivan had to reach pretty deep into his pockets to pay for tuition, books, room and board, and the service fees. These allowed St. Incundita to offer such amenities as a spa, a private movie theater, a nine-hole golf course, and other advantages. But no student had to pay any extra for these little niceties—they were just part of the overall package. You either used them or you didn’t.

Waxing had been painful. And the attendant had touched her in ways that made Fiona vaguely uncomfortable. Maybe just getting rid of the hair for good would. . . would be . . . the . . . .

Cindy’s breathing grew slow and regular, and before long, Fiona had glided into sleep as well.

The sensor in the speakers picked up the altered sound of their breathing, and when the sine wave of the sounds matched a preset pattern, a second recording cut in, very softly, half masked by the soothing music:

Sleep. Sleep deeply. You are asleep.

A woman’s voice, husky, low.

You are so happy to be at St. Incundita. You belong here. You and all your classmates are like sisters. You are so happy.

Sleep deeply. Sleep now. Sleep, sleep.

Incundita girls love sex. You are an Incundita girl.

Sleep deeply. Sleep.

You are curious about sex. You want to learn about sex. You want to have sex.

Sleep. Sleep deeply.

You are an Incundita girl. You have no will of your own. You will obey.

Sleep deeply.

You will obey. You love sex. You will obey. Sex is good. You live for sex.

Sleep.

You are a freshman. You will obey upper class girls. You will always obey your teachers. You are a slave. You have no will of your own.

Sleep.

You enjoy being a slave. You enjoy taking orders. You will gain pleasure from sex only when you are treated as a slave.

Sleep.

Service is your purpose. You are a sex toy. You live to serve others. You will dream of sex. You will do anything you are ordered to do. You gain pleasure from obedience.

Sleep, sleep.

Sleep, slave.