The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

KAIDEN WAGNER

I chuckle at the laptop screen.

Vice Principle Rivera chides me from the front of the room. “Mr. Wagner, if you’re not going to take detention seriously, you’re going to have a lot more of it in your future.”

I look around at some of the other people in here with me who appear to be just staring at the walls, mindlessly—Brianna Rogers, Faith Phillips, Cora Jackson, Damian Long—before I drone out a compulsory, “Yes, Ms. Rivera.”

I then return my attentions to the task at hand—the corruption of Clara Neal.

To understand just how much of a goody-goody Clara is, you should know that she’s never been to Abstinence Club. Not because she doesn’t believe in abstinence—that virgin most certainly does—but rather that she feels like even talking about “it” is unclean. It being, you know, “sex.” I’d love to blame it on her parents, but they seem pretty cool from afar, not like some restrictive preacher types who forbid her from dancing and modern technology or the like. No, Clara seems to have come to this holier than thou state of mind wholly on her own. The real crime of it all is that Clara is a looker. A real natural beauty. Though she doesn’t spend time on her hair or wear any makeup, her god-given looks make her a real head turner. She has nearly white blonde hair, lovely (though judging) green eyes, and her womanly curves are accentuated by a slight and short frame. In other words—nice face, great tits, and a stellar ass with little to no fat elsewhere.

And that’s why I’m cloning one of her favorite teacher’s—Mr. Lincoln’s—email addresses to send her a very special link from a very special website.

I hope that the goody-goody will discover a whole new self and hopefully one that’s more to my tastes and more inclined to accept my advances.

CLARA NEAL

“Are you absolutely sure you don’t want to come out with us for ice cream?” My dad asks, as if asking me again is going to change my mind.

“No, dad. I got an email from Mr. Lincoln asking me to review something for class tomorrow.”

“And it can’t wait?” My mom asks. You’d think the way they’re treating it, it’s the last chance the three of us will ever have to go get ice cream as a family. There’s always tomorrow and the day after that, so I just close my door on them, shifting my attention from my phone to my laptop so that I can give whatever Mr. Lincoln sent me my full and undivided attention.

I’m prompted for my name and I enter it.

I’m prompted to confirm my gender and that I’m over eighteen.

I guess he doesn’t want any underclassman finding out about whatever assignment this is ahead of time. That would make sense about the whole eighteen thing. And since he sent it to me, he’s got a fifty-fifty shot of weeding out nosy students if they click that they’re “male” and not “female” like myself.

I feel momentarily vertiginous, but that passes when some text from some sort of story appears on my screen.

Your apprenticeship in the Dark Arts is off to a stunning start, having lost your way and arriving late to your orientation. The general course load for first year students only allows for one elective, many of which have already been picked over, leaving you limited to only a pair of choices.

Clara, do you choose:

Corruption of the Body

Corruption of the Mind

Corruption of the Body sounds like some kind of disease. So long as my soul remains pure, I’m sure my mind will be fine.

I select—Corruption of the Mind.

I realize I’ve been incredibly judgmental about people’s life choices. I can’t believe I’ve ever thought a girl was a slut or a guy was a douche. It’s worse to think that I’ve called people that—behind their backs or even to their face. I feel a knot of guilt and shame in the pit of my stomach.

You arrive to your first lab class and meet your partner. She seems a lot more self-assured than you. The professor says that, to begin, one of you will need to spill a small amount of blood into the collection vase at your station.

Clara, do you:

Opt to spill your own blood

Let your lab partner spill hers

I’ve always taken the lead in everything I’ve done. With how I’m feeling right now, I don’t know that that has been “right.”

I select—Let your lab partner spill hers.

Prior to this moment, I’ve never been turned on by tattoos or earrings or anything of that ilk. I don’t know why that is because thinking about anything like that is so incredibly hot. Tattoos are a turn on. Piercings even more so. I flush at the thought of some of the “wilder” boys I go to school with. I would love to just kiss them right now.

You watch as the sharp edge pierces her skin and she spills spill one, then two drops of blood into the collection vase at your station.

“The next element is a couple of strands of hair. You’ll need to blacken them with flame before dropping them in,” the professor tells the class.

Clara, do you:

Use your hair

Use your lab partner’s hair

There’s something entrancing about the idea of watching my lab partner do these things.

I select—Use your lab partner’s hair.

I’ve always thought of myself as a good girl and, as such, felt like I should wind up with a good boy eventually. Another way in which my thinking has clearly been wrong. I want a bad boy—the badder, the better. I want some dirty, nasty, mean boy. I’ve never gotten wet just thinking about a fictional boy, but I feel myself juice up with this one in my mind.

“Stir your tincture together, making sure that it’s completely mixed.” The professor says while she walks the floor, slowing meandering through and around every station. “Once that’s accomplished, one of you must drink the mixture and the other must focus on one of their physical features.”

Your partner insists that you drink the fluid, having done the previous two tasks. You take her in, this girl you know nothing about.

Physically, she’s your opposite. She’s dark-haired, wears all black, including heavy black makeup on her eyes and lips, and you see a tattoo peeking out from her shirt sleeve. She’s probably the kind of girl who does bad things with bad boys.

Clara, do you hope she:

Focuses on your eyes

Focuses on your mouth

Focuses on your clothes

Focuses on your skin

If I was presented with this girl, what would I want to emulate? What would immediately tell this new sort of boy that I’m interested in that he should be interested in me? Or would he be turned on by my “good girl” look? Turned on by the prospect of corrupting me? So much to think about. So much to consider. I find the wrapping around presents is always the initial draw, so…

I select—Focuses on your clothes.

I’d never given a lot of thought to my look, which was so, so stupid. Clothing should be a central preoccupation as you are what people see you as. My soft blonde hair falling down over dark corsets with dark stockings below would be the perfect advertising for who I want looking at me and what I want them to think about me.

“Whatever role you played in preparing the last concoction, I want you to give to your partner,” the professor tells the class and you wonder what feature your partner will focus on.

Your partner watches you as you pricks her finger, burn your hair, and add both to the mixture.

Unlike last time, the professor comes around, and while investigating, sprinkles something into each mixture.

“This is mirror root. That changes the effect so that the drinker will be the recipient of the change their partner focusses on.”

You like the idea of the power behind the change, but the girl looks exactly as you want her to.

Clara, do you:

Examine her lips

Examine her chest

Examine her face

Examine her legs

Her lips and face are perfect as they were describe—dark painted and hopefully devilish. If I really have to pick between legs and chest, it’s a toss-up, but I might as well—

I select—Examine her chest.

I have good boobs. I heft one and then the other in my hands, feeling their weight. They should be displayed. I know I want to see them displayed for my view. It’s like the Golden Rule of Breasts—show unto others as you would like shown unto you. I haven’t really utilized the women’s showers to their full potential. So many breasts of different sizes and varieties—why keep your gaze down? Keep your eyes and chest proudly elevated.

Your gaze lingers on your chest until it shimmered and shifted to match yours. It wasn’t too much of a change, but the magic is undeniable.

Class ended, you walk alone towards the cafeteria. While in the hall, your eyes land on a painting of a woman. As you settle your gaze onto the figure’s breasts, you hear a faint whisper emanating from it. The only word you can make out, though, is your name—“Clara.”

Clara, do you—

Get closer to the painting to hear what is being said

Ignore it and continue on your way

This seems like a trap. I wouldn’t want to fall into a magical trap at a magical school. That seems so… beginner.

I select—Ignore it and continue on your way.

I need a nickname. Clara feels too goody two shoes to me—it’s a child’s name. I need something more substantial, something more daunting. Something that says I’m not to be crossed. Clara doesn’t do that. My parents were stupid to name me Clara. It’s a girl’s name and I am a woman. I have the breasts to prove it. I don’t know what my name should be, but I’m sure as hell not responding to Clara anymore.

When you start to step away from the painting, someone bumps you and angrily says, “Watch it!”

Clara, do you—

Ignore their rudeness

Bump them back

I am not to be trifled with.

I select—Bump them back.

If someone has a problem with my attitude, I say “fuck ‘em.” I’m looking out for me and me alone. Everyone else can pound sand for all I care.

You purposefully speed up your gait so you can bump the girl that bumped you. As much as you were annoyed by her bump, she’s infinitely more so. And to top it off, you can tell she’s an upperclassman at the school and therefore a lot more adept at the magical arts than you currently are. Her steely gaze cuts through you.

Clara, do you—

Apologize

Stand your ground

What part of “fuck ‘em” does this story not understand about me?

I select—Stand your ground.

Apologies are for suckers and the weak. I am strong. Strong-minded. Strong-willed. I know what I want and I take what I want and I never want not take shit from anybody. I don’t care who they are. Students. Parents. Teachers. Titles and positions mean about as much to me as rules and decorum, which is to say not at all.

The upperclassman appreciates your boldness and decides to take you under her wing… eventually.

For now, she has to make an example of you for fear of other defiances.

She curses you with the mouth of a sailor.

You can’t help but swear nearly every third or fourth word.

Trying to shake off the strange feeling in your head, you continue on your path to the cafeteria, hunger stirring in your belly. Once you arrive and fill your tray with food, you are then met with the decision as to which long table to join.

Clara, do you—

Join the beautiful students

Join the popular students

Join the kind students

Join the smart students

Join the outcast students

The fuck do I care? At least the stupid-ass beautiful students will give me something pretty to stare at.

I select—Join the beautiful students.

Beauty may only be skin fucking deep, but it’s real fucking important. If you’re not good looking, you aren’t shit. People who say it’s what’s on the inside that counts are usually real fucking ugly. Bitches with no tits and no ass. Dudes with no dicks. No one you’d want to hang around with. Sevens. You must at least a nine to hang with… Ugh. I want to think Clara, but I’ve abandoned that name. It’s not me anymore. I need something sexy as fuck. Clarissa? Close to Clara, but with a little something more. I’ll have to give that a little test drive… walk it around and see if it tickles my pussy.

You sit with the beautiful students, but they’re quick to judge you for checking them out, especially the girls and their lovely breasts.

“What are you, some kind of lez?” The apparent queen bitch of the beautiful kids asks you. She leans forward, putting her own breasts on display and you can’t take your eyes off of them. The beautiful students apparently have very fixed sexualities and kick you out despite your protests that you just like to appreciate the look of the female form—or, in your words—you like to scope out titanic tatas and itty-bitty-titties alike.

After that, you’re asked to leave and, with nowhere else to sit, you find yourself welcomed by the outcasts, a group of about nine, nearly evenly split down gender lines with your arrival.

The de facto leader seems to take a shine to you, welcoming you wholeheartedly into the fold. As lunch ends, she asks you, “We’re skipping the next class to make out, you in?”

Clara, do you—

Join your new friends in their make-out session

Go to your next class

I’m picturing the leader to be hot, someone I’d like to see undressed…

I select—Join your new friends in their make-out session.

My pussy gets hella soaked at the thought of a hot, make-out session. Any thoughts of fucking always turn me on and get me ready to put thought into hard core action. My cunt feels particularly empty and in need of a real fingering. I’ll do just that as soon as this story ends.

You follow your new friends to a quiet area outside of the compound. Once out of the watchful gaze of teachers, the make-out session begins in earnest. The boy standing next to you pulls you into a kiss that curls your toes. He expertly works his hands up, down, and all over your body. When you’re at a peek of arousal, he vanishes and you open your closed eyes to see the girl who invited you. She starts to move in on you.

Clara, do you—

Allow her advances

Rebuke her

I’ve never had feelings towards another bitch, but it seems wrong to judge or stop her. Besides the idea of some unfettered tits gets me real fucking hot. Nothing wrong with catching a look.

I select—Allow her advances.

I don’t remember the exact moment when I discovered I liked chicks as much as dicks. I think I was watching some stupid, cookie cutter rom-com and I realized I was checking out the woman’s tits and ass as much as I tried to find the outline of cock in the lead male’s pants. I watched a lot of fucking porn and realized it wasn’t just tits that turned me on. I love clits and fat pussy lips. Realizing that vag and cock are equally sexy doubled my fuckable world.

If you thought the heat generated by you and the boy was intense, the girl pulls down the sun when she starts her much more advanced ministrations. She finds sensitive spots on your body you were completely unaware of, bringing you to a blissful orgasm the likes of which you’ve never experienced—all of that with your clothes still on your body. Smiling, she says, “I think you should be my girlfriend.”

Clara, do you—

Agree

Disagree

Pulls down the sun, huh? Sounds nice and all, but I want to explore my options and not be tied down to just one cunt. There’s simply too much pussy and dick in the world that must be tasted and savored.

I select—Disagree.

KAIDEN WAGNER

A weekend goes by leaving me wondering—did she open it? Did it change her? All kinds of scenarios run through my head. I try to catch a glimpse of her, going out of my way to go past her house at least twice a day, both Saturday and Sunday, but I catch no sight or whiff of her.

It’s only Monday morning, when I see her enter the school, that my jaw drops and my spirits lift simultaneously. Only her blonde hair remains from her previous look. Everything else is much more daring. She has a halter top that barely contains her and leaves nothing to the imagination. Below she has long black stockings leading up into short shorts and down into tall boots. It’s almost a challenge to see where any part of her outfit ends, aside from her arms, neck, and ample cleavage.

I approach, hopeful. “Hey, Clara. Looking good.”

I wonder what’s gone on behind the scenes—in her mind.

She cocks her hip to one side, sizing me up. “Fuck the fuck off, Kaiden,” she says to me, “It’s Clarissa, not Clara. And Clarissa doesn’t sully herself with anything less than a hot-ass ten.”

She walks away and I see her examine everyone she passes like a shark on the hunt. She finds the hottest couple in school—the head cheerleader and quarterback. I don’t know what she says to them, but they all leave together and they’re all smiles when they do.

Even if the changes don’t immediately benefit me, I can foresee myself picturing the three of them intimately intertwined for the rest of my days. I’ll just substitute myself in for the quarterback. Thankfully, I have a great imagination.

Also, now that I know the story works, I just need to find a girl who will answer all the questions in a way that will ultimately work out specifically in my favor…

Luckily, there are a lot of girls in these halls that could stand to go at least a shade darker.