The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It had taken a lot of effort to get arrested. Campus police had orders to ignore obvious provocations. Yelling ‘pigs!’ and waving a heavy protest sign with slogans written on both sides had failed to get a reaction. Eventually Miranda had cuffed herself to the most provocative object around, which was a police sergeant. She had snapped a pair of shiny handcuffs around his wrist, then hers, and told the bristling man that they were now wedded in dissent.

That had done it.

“You’re being released,” the jail guard told her, on day six of her stay. He opened the cell door and beckoned to her.

Miranda rose to her feet on aching legs. She had filled several notebooks with prison jottings, and hugged them to her chest. They were only half-full.

“Released how?” she demanded. “Did someone make bail for me or something? Because I’m refusing that. No one is allowed to pay my bail except for me.”

Her bail had been set at $1,000, and they took credit cards. She had refused to pay it due to principles.

“No bail payment. Release on own recognizance. Charges have been dropped. You’re free to go.”

The guard had thick biceps, with a row of dark black hairs adding charm and definition. He looked at her with disinterest. Miranda was a stickish girl, her hair cropped well above her shoulders, with only high and aristocratic cheekbones adding visual flair to a flat and uninteresting body. She had dark black circles under her eyes and missed too many meals. Miranda didn’t leave much time for sleeping or eating in her daily agenda.

“Charges have been dropped,” Miranda stated, flatly. She paddled towards the door in prison shoes.

“Bingo. Dropped. At this point, you are trespassing on valuable public property. Time to go.”

“I handcuffed myself to a cop. That’s criminal behavior.”

What was really going on here? She eyed the man critically, daring him to make some sexist remark, to say the word “toots”.

“No one cares,” the guard told her. “I don’t care, no one cares. Come on. This isn’t a hotel. This isn’t the Ritz. Lets go.”

And it was true. No one did care.

There had been no public outcry, no chanting “Miranda” outside the jailhouse window. No sit-ins in her honor, no protest songs rhyming on her name.

Whatever was going on out there?

Miranda gathered herself and strode out the door.

They let her get back in her protest outfit before they kicked her out. Heavy sweatshirt, two layers of shirts, bandanas stuffed in the pockets, jeans with the knees ripped and torn. And her favorite pair of sneakers with the phone numbers of major news organizations written on the toe. She changed in a bathroom. No one watched her. She fit back into a grubby bra that she didn’t truly need and a pair of underwear she probably should not’ve gotten arrested in.

No one was waiting for her in the lobby.

Except for a boy she sort of remembered from the background of protest marches, meetings, and committees. He had always faded into the back of things.

Hey, you’re...” she searched for the name.

“Joshua,” he supplied. “Hey. They just let me out. You too, huh? That was a long week.”

Joshua had managed to shave during his jail stay, although his weak white neck was dotted with red razor burns, and there were patches of blond hairs at the corners. He didn’t look the protesting type. Heavy glasses, which were easy to break. Short blonde hair, very short, where Miranda was used to topknots and/or styled-back flips. She would’ve suspected agent provocateur if his clothes weren’t as battle-scarred and worn as hers. And he had a black bruise on the side of his neck.

“I didn’t expect everything to be so boring. Boring food, boring days, boring magazines,” he said, standing up.

“Y...yeah,” Miranda said. She looked at her prison notebooks. She had waited for obscenities to be tossed at her, or some blatant ogling, to be called sweetcheeks. Instead she had just lived through a grey and unceasing tedium, silent except for the overlapping hum of florescent lights. “I guess we’re free to go. We’re probably too much trouble for them as a focus for the movement. It’s easier just to assume we’ll go home and write blogs about our experiences and then use them for grad school.”

“Oh. I, uh, I haven’t heard anything from outside,” Joshua said. “What’s up out there? Has it been nasty or brutal? I didn’t see anyone else get arrested but us.”

“....no,” Miranda admitted. “Maybe... they’re at a different jail. Or maybe a judge stepped in or something. Or maybe it’s going on right now. We should probably get down to the square just in case.”

Both of their returned phones were dead. No doubt, Miranda thought, their voicemails were overflowing with well-wishing and incendiary messages. She stuffed it in her back pocket. Her satchel—it wasn’t a purse—showed no signs of anything more then cursory rifling. All the money in her wallet was still there.

Probably no one knew they were released to pick them up.

“Want to split a cab back to campus?” Joshua offered.

“....Okay,” Miranda said.

That was probably it.

The weather had changed while they were away. During the protests thick hunks of clouds had rolled across the sky, touching campus spires and spurting sudden bursts of freezing rain. The wind had made them all dance under the top-heavy weight of heavy oak-backed protest signs, and some of the movement had nearly been brained by ideological slogans.

That was all gone. It was nice out. Probably eighty degrees.

And all evidence of student dissent was gone. It did not exist.

“What the FUCK?” Miranda growled, sweeping into the main square. The administration building loomed over a small quad and a set of 60s-era science buildings. Light green hedges colonized spare places. Here they had built a town called Tuition. Here they had listened to horrible guitar music and passed around a single bag of weed for thirty or forty people. It had been a great moment for cooperation.

Nothing remained. The flagstones were freshly scrubbed. There weren’t even soaked cardboard signs or a few scraps of flyers to show that anything had been there at all. It was just gone. All gone.

“Where is everyone?” Miranda said, pacing the square. “Did we lose? Did we win? Is today a vacation and I didn’t even know it? Where did everyone GO?”

“Sorry?” Joshua said, half-following her rapidfire ranting.

The co-eds passing by seemed to be taking advantage of the nicer weather. One wore a nearly backless shirt, with just a few complicated ties covering the very small of her back. She had a beautiful tan and flawless shoulder blades, not to mention a pert rear end squeezed into a pair of jean shorts with the cuffs turned up. Only a pair of uggs gave a hint that summer wasn’t in the air. She carried a textbook by the cover, destroying the spine.

“I think we must’ve won,” Miranda muttered, scratching her cheek. “If we lost then April and the other girls were going to toss a molotov cocktail at the administration building. We had looked up instructions on the internet. Joshua? Hey? Are you listening?”

“I’m listening,” Joshua promised. Except that two asian girls were arm-in-arm, on their way somewhere, their hair up in curls like it was prom night, their hips rubbing together in matching minis in bright pink and yellow. It looked like they had dyed them. Pink’s hand wandered casually to the top of yellow’s ass.

The way everyone walked was... different. College students strode or stomped or hurried. They ran to class or ran back. Sometimes they meandered, or bumped into objects while examining their phones. They certainly didn’t sashay, they certainly didn’t walk with bright big brainless smiles to nowhere in particular.

“Huh,” Joshua said, biting his lip and turning back and forth. Another duo passed by, these two a set of sorority girls, jogging. One took the time to smile at him as she floated by, droplets of sweat spattering in her wake.

“Joshua!” Miranda said. She finally noticed the slow parade of tit-flesh and ass making its way along the promenade. “Oh, what the hell! Are you staring at a bunch of girls? Come on, these are the girls that sit in the back of class and text their boyfriends about what kind of underwear they’re not wearing.”

That’s a problem? Joshua thought. He forced his attention back onto Miranda. It was an effort. She had fit in so well to the shitstorm of anger and rebellion of last week, holding two signs at once, browbeating others. Today she was like a dark black cloud in a landscape painting. It just didn’t... fit.

She grabbed his hand. Miranda, surprisingly, had nice nails. They weren’t painted, of course, but they were long and dainty and unusually feminine on the committed activist and tomboy. “Come on,” she told him. “We’ve got to talk to somebody.”

One of the joggers saw him leave .She blew Joshua a kiss. It was aimed at his dick.

Miranda’s first plan was to get back to HQ. The Women’s Association had dedicated office space, and she had personally purchased several large locks to secure the door. Breaking it down would require a battering ram and would automatically trigger several lawsuits. Girls would be there.

Except they passed Paris, who was looking at a vending machine. Miranda knew her from Literary Club, an eager and attentive blonde with an unfortunate but understandable love for Jane Austen and Charlotte Bronte. She was tall for a girl, cringing and crouching to stay narrowly under six feet. She wore sensible sweaters to meetings and only occasionally gushed about romance and brooding men in evening dress. And she lived in jeans.

Not today.

Today she wore a burgundy dress with black tiger stripes racing along both sides. It was secured by two spaghetti straps on the top of her shoulder, and two bulbous tits nearly spilled out the front. Her ass certainly poked out of the back. The blonde who blushed at the word ‘fornicate’ had her cheeks up in the air as she examined a selection of drinks. Her knees were locked, her butt already thrust up by two matching heels. She even swayed, a little, as she took all the time in the world to read labels.

“Paris? Paris, what the fuck?” a shocked Miranda said. Paris cantilevered slowly up, pushed the button for a massive water bottle. It ka-chunked to the bottom of the machine. She smiled a very warm hello, particularly at Joshua, then bent even farther over to retrieve her drink.

The girl wore pink polka dot underwear. They didn’t fit very well, stuffed into her ass crack and showcasing her thighs.

Miranda’s eyes widened. This was lewd, shocking. She could see every inch of Paris’ healthy thighs arising out of her cheap dress. It was designed for a medium-sized girl without any body issues. On Paris, it strained at the seams.

“Miranda, you’re out of...” she paused, cocked her head. “Where it was that you were! Where have you been? Oh my goodness we missed you this week!”

The blonde cracked open her water bottle. Miranda’s nose twitched. It wasn’t just water. Water didn’t smell like oranges. And it didn’t creep into her nose like that. Paris took a huge gulp. She spilled a bit on her dress, and rivulets ran down into the valley between her breasts.

“Mm,” she said, and slowly cocked her head the other way. “So what’s up?”

“What... what happened to the Movement?” Miranda said, distracted. Not as distracted as Joshua. “And what are you wearing? What the hell? What the FUCK?”

“Wait,” Paris said. “Whoa. Lets wait. First, swears. Wow, three questions, that is so YOU Miranda! That’s awesome that you’re back,” she giggled.

“What. Happened. To the protest.”

Her eyes widened. Paris had outlined them in black mascara. “Oh my god you haven’t heard that we won! We totally won!”

“We won.”

“We won we won we won!” Paris cheered. She impulsively hugged her friend, and Miranda had a mouthful of titflesh to breath around. It smelled like oranges and.. other unidentified, sweet fruits, and it sent unexpected pink sparkles through her exhausted mind. Paris squeaked, and her water bottle leaked over the back of Miranda’s sweater.

They had won. And she had missed it. She had been the one who wasn’t there, the absent member of an epochal event. When the history books were written and scholarly articles discussed, she would be the footnote that read “although a key leader, Miranda was unfortunately in jail when anything important happened, leading to her total irrelevancy today.”

“What did we win?” Miranda asked this new version of Paris. The one that smelled so... nice.

“Oh, everything! We got reduced, um, toot-ition, and we got them to change the mascot from a confederate indian to a shade of blue, I think it’s, uh, cerulean or something? And we even got them to do all our, uh, foreign, uh, policy stuff?”

“So we’re at war with all those countries now?” Miranda asked, excited in spite of herself. “ALL of them?”

“Yes!” Paris squealed. “We totally are!” She waved her hands like they held pom-poms, and more water splashed all over the place. Including onto Miranda’s sweatshirt. Talking to Paris was getting her soaked.

It smelled so strongly of oranges. Her mouth was suddenly a desert. Had she drunk anything in all her time in prison? Miranda tried to swallow around it, but her tongue was thick and heavy.

“And what did we give up in return?” she finally said.

Paris shrugged, vaguely. “We just had to... calm down. Relax. Be happy and cheerful. So we are! We all went home and celebrated.”

Maybe that’s all this was. Paris celebrating. Or maybe she was drunk, or high. But... Miranda took in the busty amazon in her high heels. Had her teeth been that white? They were like pearls in the marketplace.

She coughed. “Can I get some water?” Miranda finally whispered.

“Sure! They’re FREE!” Paris exclaimed. She smacked the button twice, and two more massive jugs of water plummeted into the bottom. She handed one to Miranda, who cracked it open gratefully.

This one smelled like strawberries. It had a simple label that just read ‘WATER!” and some legal-y stuff. Miranda put it to her lips. A nicely cool gush of strawberry-flecked water rushed into her, and past her, baptizing her lips and collecting with the orange in her cotton sweatshirt.

God, she was thirsty. Miranda put her lips around the nozzle to get more out, to swallow as fast as she could, the raging torrent flowing down her throat and into her belly, where it made her feel nice and full.

She burped, and blushed, embarrassed. And then she drank some more.

“Miranda,” Paris said, snickering, “what are you wearing? Is that a sweatshirt? Where’s your body? Is it in there somewhere?”

Miranda tried to answer while still drinking, and nearly choked on liquid. She settled for glaring at the tall blonde. Paris switched her attention to the male. “You both look so silly! You need to relax and enjoy the weather a lot more. It’s so nice out!”

Behind her, Joshua sniffed carefully at a grape version, then found himself equally overcome with thirst.

“Um,” Miranda said. Words momentarily escaped her. That was weird. She was so used to pouring out with things to say. But.. something wasn’t quite right. She searched for words in the strawberry-flecked expanse of her mind, and didn’t get anything. She just drank more water.

“Here,” Paris said, her eyes sparkling. “Have another.” She leaned over, so that Miranda stared at her boobs, and whispered into her ear with her big pink lips.

“They’re free!”

They wandered through campus, looking and smelling like beggars, examining the campus around them. Miranda clutched her open bottle with one hand and a second jug with the other. The water soaking into her bra should’ve annoyed her, but it was pleasantly cool in the heat of the sun, and besides, it was her fault the way she kept spilling strawberry onto her sweater. She used to be better at drinking things.

The strawberry scent clung to her like a new perfume.

“It feels different, doesn’t it?” Joshua said, around his own mouthfuls. They both sloshed. “The campus.”

“We... won,” Miranda said. She fluffed her hair back as another set of tits wobbled by on a bicycle. This girl wore a bikini underneath a white t-shirt. Maybe she was on the way to the pool. Maybe. “I guess everyone is... excited about that. They were under a lot of... tension, and this is how it’s getting released. I’ve read about that, babies getting born nine months after liberation.”

Babies? She hadn’t thought about babies in years. Miranda belched, and paused, appalled. Then she did it again. Strawberry escaped and flooded her nose, instead.

“Yeah, but EVERYTHING looks nicer,” Joshua pointed out. He was right. The hedges had been trimmed, the buildings looked like they had been pressure-washed, the windows were glossy and clean and showcased smiling people inside. “It’s like the President is visiting or something. It’ s just... I don’t know.. it’s odd.”

“People are, um, working on it,” Miranda pointed out. She adjusted her hair again. It suddenly seemed so oily and gross. SHE suddenly felt so oily and gross, after a week in prison without benefit of salon products and makeup and long, hot showers. Miranda shook herself. Just because all the girls look like they’re in Claiborne commercials doesn’t mean you have join in, she told herself. She vaguely recalled some study on this, where social pressure led good girls to do bad things like showing off their tits every moment of the day.

“And who are those guys?” Joshua said.

“Those guys” were a team of workmen in overalls, working on a long-neglected bed of grass. They had already squared and trimmed the greenery, and were readjusting plants. They were all square-jawed men with thick pounds of muscle.

“Maybe..” Miranda watched their biceps ripple. They were nice. “Maybe.. ummm... hey, Joshua. Look, I’m thinking of heading back to the dorms and seeing what’s up and taking a nice shower. I feel so gross. Got a lot of dirt to wash off.”

She turned to face him. Their strawberry-grape breath mixed in the air. Miranda breathed in the result. It was very nice and sweet. She gave him a tentative, wan smile, and started to twirl at her hair.

“Why don’t we, you know, see each other again soon?” she caught herself. This wasn’t some DATE, although... Joshua had been a cool guy to hang out with. And she liked hanging out with cool guys. “Um, you know, after I get changed and clean up and everything. I promise I’m a lot more fun when I’m not in prison clothes.”

Ugh, what was she saying? It kept getting translated to “flirt” in her mouth.

Joshua crossed his arms. They weren’t as thick and powerful as those workmen’s were, but Miranda found herself noticing them anyway. Gosh, what was wrong with her? Had the entire campus gone straight from “change” to “dating frenzy?” She felt like she was suddenly living in an Archie comic, with hearts in her eyes.

Miranda took a step back. It helped. A little.

“I’ll call you soon,” she promised, and backed away. She stepped away, and realized that Joshua would have an opportunity to stare at her ass. It was still wet from Paris’ water-attack.

“Hey, Miranda,” he said.

She twirled, smiled nervously. “Yes?”

“Maybe I should get your number first.”