The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Kirsten was walking in the door as I was walking out.

“Hey!” I said. “I’ve got lab until five, but I’ll be back in enough time to help you get ready.” Kirsten had another date—she went out all the time.

“OK,” she said, nodding. “He’s picking me up at six-thirty.”

“I won’t be late,” I said. I reshouldered my bag and moved past her.

“Cool.” She flashed a smile. “I think I’ll let you have Dirty Panties Soup tonight.”

I halted and barely started to say something, but it got stuck in my throat. I felt myself juicing up, and warmth spreading down my legs and up to my chest. My mouth went dry, and my heart sped up.

“Have fun at lab!” Kirsten said, and shut the door.

Lab was a mess. I mean, it was no big deal, because I understood the material and the concepts, and I knew what I was supposed to be doing, but I just couldn’t focus. I dropped my pen and dropped it again three times trying to pick it up. I knocked my notebook and notes off the table, and they went everywhere. Taking simple measurements of anything seemed beyond me. Through it all, I was hot and juicy down below, and my mouth wasn’t dry anymore either. It was full of saliva.

I just wanted to get myself off. I imagined all the ways I could do it: brazenly, sitting on my stool with my pants down and legs spread, giving everyone a show, my fingers dancing in my panties. Covertly, leaning close to my work station with my hand down my jeans, waiting to see who caught me (pretty Sara at the next table? nerdy-but-cute Justin? our TA, Sal?) and what they did about it. Filthily, standing next to one of my classmates (Sara? hot, trashy, gay Mark? snotty, sexy Amanda?), with my eyes closed, rubbing myself off against her purse or his textbook until I was noticed. I imagined how the murmur would spread around the room until everyone was watching me dry-hump myself to climax.

And as my clit started spasming and the wet streamed out inside my thighs, I’d open my eyes, lick my lips and smile at all of them, and they’d see what a deranged fucking whore I am.

That was lab, or the first few minutes, anyway. The fantasies quickly spiraled up and away—or down and dirtier, rather, I guess. I got my work done, but in my mind I was being gangbanged by the entire class. I was sucking on the boys’ toes. The girls were passing me back and forth, not kissing me but pushing glob after glob after glob of hot wet spit into my open mouth, so that my chin and throat and tits got covered with drool. In my fantasies, I followed one of them—first Amanda, then Sara, and then Amanda again—into the bathroom and watched her pee, and then I wiped her clean. She took the piss-soaked toilet paper from me and stuck it on my face.

In my fantasies, I licked the gay boys’ butts until they were sopping wet, and I guided the other boys’ cocks into them. In my fantasies, Sal told me I was a genuine nymphomaniac and that the school was going to hold me for observation, but that really meant I was going to live in a cage in a laboratory and eat out of a dog bowl and get fucked six or seven times a day. In my fantasies, the dean of the college matter-of-factly called me a dumb slut, and gently advised me to give up my dream of med school, move to Los Angeles, and start working in porno.

Dirty Panties Soup. That’s what those three words do to me. They’d do it to you, too, if you ever tasted it.

The first time I tasted Dirty Panties Soup was the beginning of the school year. Only five months ago, but so much had changed, it seemed like at least a lifetime.

Senior year, my first apartment off-campus. I had met Kirsten, a friend of a friend, toward the end of sophomore year, but we didn’t really start to hang out until about a year later. We both wanted to find a place off-campus and we couldn’t afford to live alone, so we moved in together in June. I thought it was great, because she seemed like she was pretty together, focused, like me. And she liked to go out. I wasn’t a party girl, but I usually hit the bars on weekends, and that summer was like one long weekend. We were hot together, and we never had a problem meeting guys.

I got a lot of drinks bought for me, but I didn’t usually bring guys home. Maybe I’d make out a little at the bar or on the street, and once when I was really drunk, I went home with a cute boy and went down on him until he shot in my mouth, played with him until he got hard again, and then pulled my skirt up and sat down on his bare cock. I talked dirty to him until I felt him twitching, and I could feel him spraying inside me. And then all I remember is drunkenness, and long snake moan that was mine, and pure heat.

I woke up next to him a couple of hours later and looked at his naked sleeping body. I thought how I could wake him up and spread my legs and get him to fuck me into oblivion again, a tremble shook me, and I pulled my clothes on quietly and snuck out. That was the only one-night stand I’d ever had.

Kirsten brought home guys all the time. I mean, every weekend, and often on weeknights too. I got used to leaving the bar with her and a random boy, to turning on the TV for a few minutes before I went to bed while they pawed each other on the way to her room. I got used to all the innuendoes from the guys hoping they were going home with both of us, not just her. I got used to hearing the panting and moaning and dirty talking and slurping through the wall.

I knew she was safe, because used condoms and their wrappers were always visible in the overflowing wastebasket by her door. In spite of the fact that she had random sex all the time, I didn’t think of her as a slut, I guess because she was so together. She was maintaining a 3.9, she had an internship and was involved in a couple of activities. She read and had good taste in movies and music, and I never knew her to sleep later than seven. She brought home girls once in a while, too, and I remember deciding she was more of a sexual connoisseur, like a hobbyist, fucking all these people because she wanted to, not because of low self-esteem or something.

I remember being a little jealous, too. I had a long-standing fantasy about sex with another girl, and I struggled not to fantasize about Kirsten. I guess I assumed that she fucked so many people, she’d have fucked me already if she wanted. Maybe, I told myself, she didn’t want to make living together weird. So I tried not to let her into my mind, tried not to imagine her sneaking into my room one night, crawling naked under the covers with me—because I was afraid if I let my dirty thoughts head that way, they’d consume me.

I had tried it with another girl, once before. The year before I moved in with Kirsten, at the end of summer break, I had driven two hours to meet a girl I’d met online. She was twenty-five, older than I was, and we’d emailed back and forth all summer about our girl-on-girl fantasies. Things culminated with a hot late-night session of phone sex, and we’d decided to meet.

I got to her place, and she was really cute, and we tried to relax, but we were both so nervous. Finally we started kissing tentatively, and then we were full-on making out on her couch. We had our shirts off and were squeezing each other’s tits, and I unbuttoned her jeans. She shimmied them down her hips, and I remember so clearly seeing the dark wet spot on her little panties. I put my fingers there, pressing on her juicebox through the fabric. I stopped kissing and stared, and was on the edge of leaning down, pushing my tongue against her, sampling her.

She pulled away from me. “I’m sorry,” she said. She was breathing heavily. “This is hot and—but ... I’m sorry—I can’t—I’m sorry—”

For a moment I almost grabbed her and forced her back onto the couch, shoved my tongue back into her mouth, I was so hot. But suddenly I was embarrassed, found myself turning red. She kept saying “I’m sorry” as I pulled my shirt on and left as quickly as I could. I had replayed the whole thing in my mind nearly every night since then, imagining how close I’d been to feeling another girl cream on my face.

But back to the soup.

So between the constant fantasies about girls and my roommate’s sexy adventures, I guess I was ripe for the plucking. I was literally a little out of my mind, and by the third week of class I was absolutely frazzled.

I got home one morning at six after a whole night working in one of the computer labs. Well, most of the night I’d been working, but I kept taking little breaks to look up porno sites on the Web. Eventually I’d been taking breaks every five minutes, getting nothing done but never getting off either, and I’d finally given up and gone home.

I threw my bag on the couch and went to the bathroom. I was going to pee, collapse into bed for about three hours, and then head back to campus for class. The toilet seat was down, and lying atop it was a pair of panties.

A pair of Kirsten’s panties.

They were dirty, was my first thought. They had to be—you didn’t leave clean underwear in the bathroom accidentally.

And then I started wondering, were they dirty? And if they were, then how dirty? Had Kirsten just taken these off before taking a shower before bed, and forgotten them? Were they just a little moist with her sweat from a regular day of school and work? Or were these nasty panties, wet from masturbation or from a hot fuck?

And then it was like my mind sort of separated itself from me, and I thought, Well, I have to pick the panties up to use the toilet. I thought, Well, I have to pick the panties up anyway. I picked the panties up, and I remember letting my mind go blank, not letting myself think about what my body was doing. I picked the panties up, brought them to eye level, stared at them. I remember thinking how disappointed I would be now, how awfully disappointing it would be if these turned out to be clean, fresh panties.

Tentatively, I leaned forward, sniffing. A little farther. Sniffing. I smelled something—I smelled it, sweet and pungent, the smell of girl.

God help me, I mashed those panties into my face. They were positively wet in the crotch, like a piece of fluffy candy with a juicy center. I inhaled, stuck my tongue out into the wetness, felt my puss get tight in my own panties.

There was a noise, and I caught movement in my peripheral vision. The bathroom door was wide open, and I was exposed to anyone looking down the hallway from the living room. I went into a quiet panic and dropped the hand with the panties to my side. Looking over, I couldn’t see anybody, and I casually dropped them on the floor a moment before Kirsten appeared.

“Hey!” she called. “Working on your paper all night?”

“Yeah,” I said, and shut the door quickly. My heart was pounding, and I looked in the mirror and saw my face was crimson. I sat down on the toilet, peed, and fled into my room. I masturbated twice before I fell asleep, wishing I had the panties. I kept imagining myself naked, on all fours on the tile floor of the bathroom, my face buried in the wet dirty panties while Kirsten watched me finger myself and called me names.

I could barely drag myself out of bed when the alarm went off, but Kirsten was in the living room watching the news and eating toast. She didn’t have class on Fridays, but she smiled at me sympathetically. “Don’t fall asleep in class,” she said.

I nodded and made a noise, and as I left, she called out, “I’ll make dinner when you get home.”

By the time I got home again, I’d forgotten about that, but she already had the pot cooking when I walked in. “It smells good,” I said while I hung up my keys. “What is it?”

“Soup,” she said. “It’ll be ready in about twenty.”

“Cool.” In my room, I peeled my clothes off—I hadn’t even taken them off to sleep that morning—for a quick shower. Stepping onto the cool tile of the bathroom reminded me of the day’s earlier events. The panties were gone.

I was nervous as I showered. What if Kirsten had seen me rubbing my face in her panties? Had she? Or had I gotten lucky, and she’d just passed me without looking? I finally told myself that she was the last person to judge somebody else about sex. Secretly—I wouldn’t admit it to myself—I was a little turned on by the whole thing, too.

I was putting some sweats on when Kirsten said, “Soup’s on!” She was setting bowls out on the coffee table when I came into the living room.

We watched TV while we ate. The soup was a light broth, but surprisingly robust, with traces of something familiar and something else, something unnameable. It was hot—but not spicy, really, because it was like the heat melted in my mouth.

I finished my first bowl quickly, and started to get up to get some more, but Kirsten gently pushed me back into my seat. “Sit,” she said. “I’ll get you some more.” She took my bowl to the pot simmering on the stove.

“It’s great,” I said, accepting the full bowl she put into my hands. “What is it?”

She shrugged. “It’s a special recipe.” She smiled and turned back to the TV.

I didn’t press the issue, mostly because I was starving and busy spooning soup into my mouth. Again, I started to get up, and again Kirsten pushed me back down and filled my bowl. I tore through this one too, and looked at the bowl in her lap, her first and still half full.

“I was kind of snacking all day,” she said.

“Not me,” I said, drinking what was left in my bowl. “This is so good. C’mon, what is it?”

Kirsten smiled, a small, smart, kind of sneaky smile that I couldn’t help but find sexy.

“C’mon, what is it?” I said.

“Do you like it, Jill?” she asked. “Do you want more?”

“Yes!” I said, and I surprised myself at how fervently I said it. “What the hell is it?”

She smirked, and it made me juice up, just a little.

“It’s Dirty Panties Soup,” Kirsten said.

“What?” You have to understand that you don’t expect someone to put those words together. That, coupled with the morning’s events, made me certain I was just exhausted and my brain was mishearing things.

Kirsten just smiled and stuck her tongue out a little, and I juiced up some more. She nodded toward the kitchen. “Go see.”

I stood. By now I had convinced myself that I had misheard her, and that looking in the pot would give me some idea of what was in the soup, and I would be able to figure out what she had really said. But when I lifted the lid on the pot, it was full of the broth I’d been inhaling, and pairs of panties.

The pot was full of panties, about a dozen pair. All at once I found myself thinking that this was a weird dream, and that Kirsten really had said, “Dirty Panties Soup.”

She walked into the kitchen. “It’s a little something I came up with,” she said. “I throw some herbs and seasoning in there, but what gives it its unique flavor is about two weeks of underwear. After it’s fermented in the hamper for a few days, of course.” She grinned.

I could not speak. It was like I was out of my mind again, and I was just listening and watching, and I was vaguely aware that my pussy was slowly throbbing.

Kirsten picked up a spoon and dipped it into the pot. She lifted a spoonful of soup toward my lips, and opened them, accepting the soup. “Of course, the soup is never exactly the same. It depends on the panties. You have your plain old dirty panties that barely even smell at the end of the day, and you have your sopping wet, I-was-too-lazy-to-take-them-off-so-I-just-fucked-myself-on-the-vibrator-and-came-right-in-them panties. Like the ones you were smelling this morning.” She giggled and nodded sideway toward the pot while she fed me another spoonful, indicating that the panties were in this batch.

Now I had absolutely lost control. My breathing was heavy, my nipples were poking through my bra and shirt, and my legs were shaking visibly. Kirsten fed me and pushed the spoon back and forth in my mouth. I licked and sucked it, running my tongue all over it. She forced it along the sides of my mouth, and wiped it back and forth on my lips and all over my face.

“You can add sweaty workout panties. And little ‘accident’ panties—you know, after you finish taking a pee, and you pull them up, and just a little more squirts out. And of course, there are fuck panties.” She fed me more soup, and I squirmed, sucking it up.

“Fuck panties, when you lay back, and he just pushes them to the side and works his cock in and out and you cream all over them. Guess what?” she said.

I stopped frenching the spoon long enough to breathe, “What?”

She spooned up more soup and pushed it back into my mouth. “I had a boy over a couple of hours ago, just to make fresh fuck panties for your soup.”

I shook and just about lost it in my pants.

“Yeah, first he ate me out”—she leaned in close, licking the spoon herself—“and he licked my butt too, and I made sure he used a lot of spit, so the nasty would get all over the panties. We fucked for so long, and he used a condom, but I made him take it off when he got close so he could jizz all over them.”

Kirsten bit my earlobe. “Do you like how his jizzy tastes, Jilly?” she whispered.

Do I need to tell you how it’s all turned out? Kirsten basically told me that if I became her sex slave, she’d make me Dirty Panties Soup again. I would have said yes even if she hadn’t said that. She smiled and told me she’d made Dirty Panties Soup a few times before, and that it was amazing, the power it had over the people who tasted it.

“They say it tastes so good, they get addicted to it instantly,” she said.

We were lying in her bed. She shifted and pulled something from under the covers. A used condom.

“That’s not from today,” she said. “That’s a couple of days old.”

Kirsten smiled and kissed me. “They say they get addicted. But I think it’s more like, they realize how nasty I am, and all of a sudden they can be as nasty as they always secretly wanted to be,” she said.

“And a lot of people are secretly very nasty,” she said. She pushed the used condom into my warm, accepting mouth.

I don’t know, myself. The truth is, I can’t resist Dirty Panties Soup. Kirsten has tested me, and gotten me to skip classes, dates, and even Thanksgiving dinner by promising it to me. If that’s not addiction, I don’t know what is.

But the truth also is, I am very nasty. And I get nastier with every bowl of soup, and I like it. Now, when she brings a random guy home with us from the bar, she just makes out with him until we get back to the apartment. Or she takes him to bed for a few minutes. Or she keeps him all night. But eventually he ends up in my bed, and I’m getting screwed by a total stranger, and creaming on his cock. It’s never a three-way—I think she just gets off on giving my pussy away.

Now my floor is littered with used condoms and condom wrappers. Kirsten loves to take me out and find someone to promise me to for the night. The first time it was a quiet, handsome guy from out of state. Then it was a pretty French exchange student about to go back to Paris. The last time it was a couple of juniors, one I have a class with. “Jill is kind of shy,” she told them after she introduced them to me, “but she wants two guys to fuck her, for as long as they can, all night. She wants you two to fuck her.” She videotaped the whole thing, telling the guys my secret fantasy was to be a porn star. I couldn’t stop coming. At first I got scared she’d show the tape to someone, but later, I don’t know how it happened, I was eating a bowl of reheated Dirty Panties Soup and begging her to put it out on the Internet.

I’m starting to get a reputation, and I’m ashamed, but it makes me hot too. Guys and girls approach me all the time now, and I know they’ve heard I’m a hot, easy fuck. I’m doing fine in school, but I spend more and more time looking at the pictures Kirsten takes of me fucking different guys and girls, editing them and sometimes posting them to random places on the Internet. The pics are getting nastier and nastier—the more Kirsten puts me through, the more soup I eat, the hotter I think it is to shove my face and tongue in a sexy boy’s ass, or to hold a girl down and piss all over her sweaty tits, or to stay past closing in a dive bar and pass out condoms, let them fuck me with beer bottles on the pool table.

As for Kirsten, I give her pedicures all the time, and suck and kiss each toe. I wash her clothes, and shave her legs and puss. When she gets home from a bikini wax, I wiggle my tongue up in her asshole to make sure she’s all clean. I help her get ready for dates, laying out her clothes and doing her hair, and if she calls me, I wait by the door for her to get home. If she’s not interested in giving a guy a fuck, she goes to bed, and I blow him in the doorway, and then he goes home.

Or at least that’s how it used to be. Now I usually end up inviting the guy into my room, and giving up the the pussy. It doesn’t matter if he’s cute, or if he’s old, or if he smells bad. In fact, that makes it hotter, sometimes.

“I’ll be bringing him home later,” she said from the kitchen. “It’s a good thing tomorrow’s Saturday.”

I nodded. This guy wasn’t old or smelly, but he was the VP of a fairly large porno production company. If he found something he liked, she said, he could get it seen by millions of people. I felt hot and sick when I heard that, and I instinctively spread my legs.

“It’s a good thing tomorrow’s Saturday,” she repeated, “because I have a feeling you’ll be up all night. You’ll need your energy, so eat up.”

Kirsten walked into the living room with a steaming bowl.

“Soup’s on.”