The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“I called this special after-class meeting to introduce you to a new form of training.” Miss Peterson said, moving from behind her desk to sit on its edge, crossing her white stocking-clad legs. She smiled vibrantly, pausing for a moment to look over the classroom, half-filled with the Falldale cheerleading squad—a rather bored-looking group of attractive, spoiled girls.

“The training involves some special techniques that I think will unify the team. It’s new, so I’ll be taking notes as you participate.” Miss Peterson’s smile grew as she uncrossed and recrossed her perfect legs.

“What kind of training?” Asked Amy Jones, a bright girl who had made the team based on her popularity—and her snapshot perfect body.

“Oh,” Miss Peterson said, reaching into her bag on the desktop and withdrawing a spindly, shiny wire, “it uses these.”

She held the thing up for everyone to see. It was a half-moon shaped band that terminated in two metal pads, backed by a rubbery surface. From its sides, two thin strips of metal protruded, the strips terminated in small cylinders.

Miss Peterson then pulled back her hair. In a moment, she had stretched the item’s sides a bit and placed it over her the top of her head. The two pads sat on either side of her skull, the thin wires—stiff, but thin—held the cylinders out in front of her eyes.

She smiled brighter than ever.

Amy watched Miss Peterson intently, but a snicker came from the rear of the classroom.

“Do you think this is a joke, Cassie?”

“No. But that . . . thing . . . it looks funny.”

“Sure it does. But you’ll see how helpful it is in a minute. Now girls, I’m going to pass these back and I want everyone to put them on, please.”

The room tittered a bit as Miss Peterson passed enough of the items out so that everyone could have one. One-by-one the girls placed them onto their heads, adjusting them.

“Everyone have them on?” Miss Peterson looked the room over.

“Good. Now we can begin.”

Digging a small, silver box out of her bag—and removing the wiry item from her own head—Miss Peterson considered the girls watching her for only a moment before she squeezed it and it began to hum with a low throb.

She moved behind the desk to the chalkboard, placing the silver box on the desk in front of her bag.

“Now, girls,” she smiled, “the items that you’re all wearing are designed to reduce resistance to suggestion from me. It just takes a moment to warm up.”

A few girls shifted positions in their seats, uncomfortable with Miss Peterson’s tone.

In a few more seconds, the silver box on the desk vibrated slightly and began to glow an unearthly shade of green, altering the tonality of the air surrounding it. The waves of shimmering color and tone distorted the desktop and radiated outward, flowing into the room.

As if in response, the pads nested lightly against the sides of the girls’ heads began to shimmer with a faint inner light. Suddenly, collectively, the light gathered and shot forward from the pad down the two rigid wires. Each pair of cylinders pulsed briefly, energizing, and an ultra thin stream of ebbing light reached straight back—deep into the pupils of the girls’ eyes.

Involuntarily, twelve sets of eyes dilated, the pupils growing much wider than they ever normally would—than they every could, unaided.

“That’s better,” Miss Peterson said to the girls sitting before her. “I have your attention now. Don’t I?”

Murmured yesses rose from the slow lips of the class.

“Now. Because you’ll be introducing all of your friends to this process, let me explain what just happened to you.”

Miss Peterson walked to the classroom door, locking it, and returned to sit on the edge of her desk. She began to unbutton the blouse that covered her ample breasts whose hard nipples had appeared beneath the fabric.

“The devices you’re wearing effectively remove the subject’s will, leaving them defenseless and completely open to suggestion.” Her smile shifted, becoming a wry grin.

The girls watched her, each breathing slowly, inhaling and exhaling in time with one another.

“The device on the desk is the master controller.” Miss Peterson pulled the blouse from her chest and dropped it on the floor, her lacy bra and tight stomach exposed.

“When activated, it charges the headsets the subject is wearing, filling it with the energy it radiates. That energy is ambiently focused on the brain through the pads on either side of the subject’s skull. It’s directly concentrated and pulsed into the brain through the retina.”

She dropped her bra to the floor and stroked her left breast, pinching her nipple. With her other hand she snaked out of her skirt, letting it drop and exposing the plain hose that wrapped her lower body from her feet to her pantyline—not that she was wearing panties, her shaved pubic mound jutting through the tight fabric.

“All this sounds quite involved—and it is. But you just need to know that you can always control your subject if you can get them to put the device on and you activate the power source. Like I control you now.”

Miss Peterson slid one finger up the inside of her thigh and pressed against the damp fabric and let out a little moan.

Pausing, she rustled in her bag and withdrew a gallon-size Ziploc baggie and opened it, rustling through the bag’s contents and withdrawing what appeared to be a rolled-up pair of bright red hose.

“Now, you will have control of your subject while they’re wearing the device and it’s powered-up. But the whole goal of controlling them is to have them put on a variant of this.”

Miss Peterson held up the rolled-up hose so that twelve pairs of heavy-lidded eyes could take a moment to examine it.

“Amy, please come to the head of the class.”

Amy slid sideways from her seat, her arms limp at her sides, her body erect, and moved to Miss Peterson’s side. She stood facing Miss Peterson, watching her as the energy from the pads coursed up under her hairline and struck out in ripples into her glazed, wide eyes.

“Please face the class.”

Amy looked at her fellow cheerleaders, each of them looking back at her, and imagined what they must be thinking. She was terrified—unable to do anything but what Miss Peterson said. And something was going on. And Miss Peterson was almost naked. And she couldn’t forget a single word she’d been told.

“Now, Amy, please strip. Be careful not to bump the headset.”

Amy’s thoughts screamed inside her skull, wanting to do anything but strip, wanting to be far from here. But, her body responded and she slid out of her jersey, out of her sports bra, freeing her young, upturned breasts. In a moment, she felt her fingers, against her will, stripping out of her skirt, her sports briefs, stepping out of them, kicking off her shoes, pulling down her socks. She was slightly chilled by the room’s temperature, but she did not shiver.

“Very good. Please, put these on,” Miss Peterson said, handing the roll of hose to Amy.

Slowly, leisurely, Amy unrolled and straightened out the hose. She didn’t wear hose very often—jeans had done away with any need—but she did remember the feel of them in her fingertips. In a minute, she hopped as she pulled one leg of the red, sheer fabric over her skin. In a moment, she had pulled the other leg into place and she straightened the pad over her most sensitive of regions, smoothing the hose over her skin with her fingers.

“Now, class, please watch what the hose does to Amy.”

In moments, the hose had gripped Amy’s lower body and began to change color to a deep pink—the blending of it and the color of her skin beneath. Surging, small rivulets of hose poured up her inner thighs, pressing against her legs in a skintight-seal, as though her legs had been vacuum-wrapped in translucent plastic. A low moan escaped Amy’s lips and her knees buckled, driving her down, legs spread wide, onto the classroom floor, her knuckles between her knees on the tile.

“As you can all see,” Miss Peterson said, stifling a moan, her fingers running down over her body to her vagina—now sealed tightly with hose, its lips visible, “the hose is more than that.” The moan escaped her lips and her eyelids, every so briefly, flickered. “It’s a new lifeform—a superior lifeform that needs us to feed it, help it reproduce, and introduce it to new sources of food and reproduction.” Miss Peterson’s fingers slipped inside her body, encased in hose that seemed to be packed inside.

Amy’s hands, too, were working at her crotch, seemingly stroking and fondling her body, small gasps of pleasure escaping from her lips. Deep in her mind, Amy knew that the hose was moving inside her body, probing, forcing her to feel pleasure beyond human comprehension—moving in her ass, moving in her pussy, encasing her erogenous zones with its surface, a thousand, invisible, tiny tendrils penetrating her body, merging with it. She felt a burning sensation at the base of her spine, a beautiful burning that produced incredible pleasure, deep, guttural pleasure.

“It’s bonding with Amy now. She’s feeling pure and complete ecstasy.” Miss Peterson groaned. “When it’s finished, Amy will be a new person—like all of you will be.”

The burning sensation at the base of Amy’s spine increased and new thoughts were seeping into her mind between peaks of orgasmic bliss, the peaks like white noise cascading through the hallways of her mind, washing “Amy” into far, deep corners, recesses from which she knew “she” would never return.

Miss Peterson turned her back and ass toward the wide-eyed students, running her hands over her buttocks and up to the white hose’s waistline. The hose was deeply meshed between her buttocks, its smooth surface pressed between her legs.

“As you can see,” Miss Peterson said, tracing with a finger a line of hose and skin that wrapped over her knobby vertebrae up to the middle of her back in a layer, “the hose has bonded with me. This is about three weeks worth of growth.” She ran her finger awkwardly up her own spine and moaned. “As it grows, in about another three weeks, the personality template for ‘Miss Peterson’ will be extinguished and the hose will be ‘me.’” Her body shuddered involuntarily, forcing her upper thighs to part, the hose between them undulating with a life of its own.

“All of you will cease to be, too, in time.” She moaned deeply, sexually, her moan joining the little pleasure pants of Amy.

“But it will be the most sexual, complete bliss every step of the way. As my template—see, I think of myself as someone else already—is absorbed, my body rewards the template for submitting, for just giving in and being consumed.” The hose between her legs pumped in and out of her body, its modulations now reaching to her ass, the pumping a rhythm to which her body began to slowly writhe. “. . . See . . . what . . . ‘I’ . . . mean . . .”

Gasps escaped her throat as “she” received her reward for being such a fine instructor.

Amy’s body arched backward, her thighs digging into her heels, her legs sliding downward to brush against the floor’s cold tile. The sensations ripping through her body were ripping through her mind, her wide eyes seeing only the glow stabbed into them by the item over her skull, seeing only images of bliss and stars of overload.

In another moment, Miss Peterson screamed with joy, both hands clasped to her buttocks, her fingers deeply indenting the ample hose and skin beneath. Flipping her hair back, she turned to face the eleven pairs of eyes that gazed at her naked, glistening, sated form.

“Oh. I see that Amy is finished,” she said, smiling. “Amy, please stand for the class.” Amy groggily raised her body erect, the red hose still throbbing between her legs, surging in small but definite waves up her calves and thighs. The green light in her eyes reflected the eleven other pairs of eyes that stared into their futures, seeing but blank.

“Please show them how the hose has bonded with you,” Miss Peterson said.

Amy slowly rotated to show the helpless girls her naked body, stopping when her ass was facing them, the undulations in and out of her body apparent.

Speaking to the blackboard, Amy said: “You can see where the hose has bonded with my spine.” She ran a finger from the small crack just above her ass to trace the red hose’s advance upward along her vertebrae. “My development is just this small nub, here.” Indeed, there was only a small protrusion of red hose, like the stub of a tail. “But that will spread upward to my skull. Until then, I will feel pleasure, afterward nothing at all.”

“And, Amy, does this worry you?” Miss Peterson said, cupping one of Amy’s breasts with her hand, testing its weight.

“Not at all, ma’am.” Amy said confidently.

“Good.” Miss Peterson ran one hand down over Amy’s now-covered ass and thigh, feeling the hose that encased the girl’s lower body.

“Class, it is now safe for me to remove the device from Amy’s head.” She reached up and pulled it away. “Amy is quite obedient, the hose ensuring that she answers to me—or any other superior that has been bonded. Isn’t that right, Amy?”

“Yes, Miss Peterson.”

Miss Peterson looked at Amy’s smile, at her firm, young body, and said, “That’s good. Service me.”

Amy immediately dropped to her knees and began to caress, touch, knead, fondle, and lick Miss Peterson’s thighs. As a reward, the hose wrapping and inside Amy’s body began a slow massaging motion—each tendril invading her flesh growing just a bit, feeding on the energy of arousal it was manufacturing.

“Now that you’ve all seen the process,” Miss Peterson said, breathing heavily, “you can all participate. Michelle?”

A blonde-headed girl, older than the rest, responded with, “Yes, Miss Peterson?”

“Come forward, please.”

Michelle slid her long, thin legs from her desk and, arms dangling by her sides, the green light permeating her wide, wide eyes, moved to the head of the class. Miss Peterson patted Amy’s head as her tongue licked at the hose between her thighs which responded with a gentle resistance to her ministrations.

“Michelle, please take these,” Miss Peterson pulled the Ziploc into her hand and handed it to Michelle, “and give one to every girl.”

Slowly, Michelle took the Ziploc and, like an automaton, passed down the aisles between the chairs, placing a pair of hose on each girl’s desk.

Red. Blue. Green. White. Burgandy-striped. Sheer. Amber. Beige. Pink. Brown. And a yellow pair on her own desk.

“Girls, please stand,” Miss Peterson said.

Collectively, the girls stood, their young, ample bodies slightly akimbo, their jaws slack, the items on their heads mirroring the waves of unearthly green streaming from the silver box on the desk behind Miss Peterson and the kneeling, serving Amy.

“Now, strip and put on the hose that’s been passed to you. Do not disturb the headsets.” Miss Peterson licked her lips, imagining the reward of eleven more to service “her” needs, not that “she” had needs any longer.

“And remember. As you slide the hose up your lovely young legs, letting it . . . ah . . . caress you, those tiny little minds of yours will soon be . . . ah . . . only too ready to serve for as long as it lets you.”

Eleven sets of eyes remained blank, eleven bodies became naked without shame, eleven sets of toes pressed gingerly against and then inside their new, silky destinies.