The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Pinefield College was the jewel in the crown of the small, comfortable, white dormitory town of Pinefield, nestled in the countryside just outside Brunchester City.

Smaller than its more illustrious counterparts, Pinefield College nonetheless excelled in two niche areas, which attracted students from far and wide.

In the sporting arena, Pinefield’s successful swim team was a national player. Although little did the world of competitive swimming suspect, that soon the College would be unveiling its new direction into some very raunchy synchronised swimming, thanks to its transgender swim squad in their new neon pink bikinis.

Academically, Pinefield College was a national leader in the teaching of languages. Thanks to a world leading Language Lab, over half the pupils were language majors.

The tall aloof figure of Dr Bill Gordon was head of the prestigious Language Lab, a bearded early middle aged man who liked to think of himself as the next Dean-elect of the College.

The only member of the faculty to use his full academic title, even his colleagues found Dr Gordon cold and difficult to get on with. But in truth, Bill was really just a shy language nerd, obsessed from a young age with the beauty of the complex structure and syntax of languages, but left feeling out of his depth by simple human interactions.

However, Dr Gordon could recognise when he was onto a good thing with his plum job at Pinefield. The computerised state of the art Language Lab practically ran itself, its four vast hanger like classrooms of individual student cubicles, each expensively equipped with screen and headphones, providing tailored content matched to each student’s progress in whichever language they were studying, all controlled by a VAX mini-computer stack in his office, spitting out statistics and progress reports.

That left Bill plenty of free time to indulge his lifelong passion for researching and learning new obscure languages to add to the 23 he claimed to be able to speak fluently already.

Dr Gordon was typically indifferent when the College Dean announced her plan to bring in teaching assistants from the controversial ‘Project’ for refugees that had recently opened in Pinefield.

Anything that didn’t disrupt his smooth teaching existence, or which could actually assist with his teaching admin workload to free up more of his own valuable time, was fine with him. If the Dean wanted to speed the students along with extra one to one assistance, so be it, as long as it didn’t impact on him.

Surprisingly, among the mass of these new Teaching Assistants in the Language Lab, Dr Gordon discovered two gems to pique his interest in the Dean’s new scheme.

Firstly, there was a young computer whiz, claiming some experience of the VAX operating system, who could free up some of his time by helping with lesson programming, administration, and even suggested some improvements he could make.

Then he found a second older man, nearer his own age, among the new Teaching Assistants who claimed to speak the relatively obscure Southern African language, Xhosa. Over the moon at the thought of adding language number 24 to his CV, and to the College’s prestigious curriculum, the over excited polyglot was nearly beside himself with joy.

Explaining the details of how to programme the system for a new language to the two men, Dr Gordon was ready to dive into his exciting new project.

Logging into his personal Language Lab booth in his office less than a week later, Bill Gordon was impressed by the upgrades that the first Teaching Assistant had already achieved. The slightly sanctimonious sounding Irish teaching avatar, Lilly, had been replaced by a muscular looking Black African, and the screen’s colours looked more vivid, albeit with an annoying flicker that still needed to be ironed out. But even before the new Black avatar had finished its introduction and warning that Xhosa was a hard language to master, the flicker had faded from Bill’s conscious awareness.

Once you knew so many other languages, normally Dr Graham had found that picking up new ones became easier and easier thanks to shared common roots and reference points. But after two long days of intensive study, Bill was beginning to wonder if he had meet his linguistic match. Xhosa was just so damned hard. He felt like he was trying to grab mist. It didn’t help his self-esteem that the Teaching Assistant was just so casually fluent in it.

“Ukusilela” the Big Black avatar kept barking at him in Xhosa. “Failure” Bill knew it meant every time he stumbled.

“You are just taking your first baby steps in this superior tongue” the African Teaching Assistant tried to reassure him. “A little white ‘Umntwana’, the Xhosa word for baby, coming into the new jungle. You cannot hope to master this language unless you let it into your soul to Master you.”

On screen the programme’s Black avatar took Bill into the heart of the tribe to learn from everyday interactions. But try as he might, the words continued to feel as if they were just out of reach. He felt small and stupid next to the fluent, big powerful Black Masters of the language. They were right to laugh at him, he was a Ukusilela.

The next day he realised what was holding him back. Every time Bill finally felt on the verge of grasping the new words, the lesson was interrupted by the need for a bathroom break. To succeed he felt sure he just needed to be able to stay immersed in the programme for longer.

Without stopping to wonder why such an item had even appeared on his office desk in the first place, Bill gratefully slipped on the adult nappy that he found sat there, and plunged back in. A little useless white Umntwana crawling around in his diaper trying to learn from the Black Masters.

He smiled happily as he felt warm liquid flooding the front of his ilweyile / diaper. The Black Masters might still be laughing at their little white umntwana ukusilela, but the words were finally coming.

Umqhagi / Cock. Bill hadn’t noticed the point at which the Black Masters in the programme had started walking around naked, but now he couldn’t take his eyes off the Enkulu / Big, Mnyama / Black, Umqhagi / Cock.

He could feel his own pathetic encinci / little pee-pee twitch in his ilweyile / diaper in response to such superior Enkulu / Big, Mnyama / Black, Umqhagi / Cock. He was so small, weak and useless in comparison, like a little Intombazana / girl.

Several other young white Umntwana Intombazana / baby bois, all in diapers, had appeared in the programme now. Their Black Masters led them around the village learning words for everyday items and foods.

Then the lesson turned to relationships. Little white Umntwana Intombazana / baby bois had been made to Khonza / serve Black Masters, It was only natural.

Ngenisa / Submit.

Thobela / Obey.

Nqula / Worship.

The Xhosa Master’s words drilled into Billie’s silly sissy head, as on screen their superior Black Masters pushed down the diapers of the beta white baby gurls, ukufuna / fucking then with their alpha Enkulu / Big, Mnyama / Black, Umqhagi / Cock.

Billie giggled, her head spinning from the sexy musky scent fill her senses as the Black Master teaching assistant appeared behind her. His powerful Black hands resting on her little white hips before pushing her own diaper to the floor and bending her over.

“Mka” she cried. “Fuck” as Master’s Enkulu / Big, Mnyama / Black, Umqhagi / Cock filled her sissy white baby pussy, before sucking on the Big Black Cock dummy he placed in her slutty mouth as he fucked her.