The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

New teacher, new rules

I had no idea what the new teacher was on about. There was no cause for her to be bitching us out. We’d gotten to class late, sure, but it was the start of the school year, and the football team had to meet for equipment hand-out—pads, helmets, cleats, jerseys. Everybody knew that the first week of school meant the first week of football practice and a minor disruption or two. Conor, Logan, and I took our seats, trading looks with one another, sharing our conviction that this was b.s.

The class proceeded as one would expect, but when it ended, the teacher hypnotized us.

Yeah. I know. That sounds weird. But it’s the only way I can explain it. It must have been some sort of hypnosis. Here’s how it went.

The bell rang at the top of the hour, which was also the end of the school day. There was the usual release of tension as everybody began to gather up books and papers, to talk to their buddies, and to rise from their desks to leave.

Logan’s joking with me about the sprints we’ll be doing later this afternoon, when the teacher, Ms. Drax, catches his eye. He returns a peeved look that says, “What?” But the teacher holds his gaze and with her finger makes a come to me gesture. Logan looks at me and at Conor. Ms. Drax says, “Yes. You... And your friends, too.”

We hesitate a moment, and then, mustering a bit of swagger, get out from behind our desks and step to the front of the classroom. The teacher is standing there, now holding my gaze, and I think Conor’s, too. I’m feeling slightly less conscious of my two buddies’ presence as we stand there in front of Ms. Drax and the rest of the class empties out of the room into the corridors.

Once the room was quiet, Ms. Drax went to the door and closed it. You could hear the lock turn and click, and then she came back to us.

“Gentlemen,” she began, “You came to class late.” Logan started as if to say something, and Ms. Drax held a finger to her lips to gesture his silence. Logan’s lips eased shut. “It’s time you learned to come when you are supposed to.” Turning away, Ms. Drax took a piece of chalk and began to write letters on the chalkboard. “From what I see, you probably do not even know when you are supposed to come.” We watched, held, it seemed, by the tone and body language that Ms. Drax was projecting. The tap, tap, tap sound of the chalk contacting the chalkboard was rapid. Finishing, Ms. Drax stepped back. We looked at the chalkboard. The letters spelled out two sentences:

GOOD BOYS DO NOT MASTURBATE. GOOD BOYS DO NOT CUM.

Seeing these words broke the silence Ms. Drax seemed to hold us in. Conor swallowed a laugh and raised his fist to cover his mouth. Logan’s jaw dropped. I just stared quizzically.

“What do you find amusing, Mr. Jefferson?” asked Ms. Drax. The question caught Conor off-guard.

“What’s that supposed to even mean?” Conor blurted out.

“What part do you not understand, Mr. Jefferson?”

Conor just stared dumbfounded.

“How about you, Mr. Ross? Is there anything here you do not understand?”

I composed myself and ventured an answer. “It’s not the words we don’t understand, Ms. Drax. We just don’t get it. What’s the point?”

“So...” Ms. Drax spoke, turning her gaze out the window to the sports ground outside. She repeated my words, as if she were thinking about their meaning: “It’s NOT THE WORDS WE DON’T UNDERSTAND.” Turning back to us, she resumed, “Let us perform a little exercise, shall we? I will see whether you UNDERSTAND the words or not. After you have completed the exercise, whether or not you understand them NOW, you will most certainly wish to come ... to understand them.”

With that cryptic locution, Ms. Drax directed us to get three chairs and make a little semi-circle facing the lab area of the classroom. As we were moving the chairs from behind the front row of desks to the place Ms. Drax had indicated, she went to a storage cupboard. Unlocking it, she reached in and pulled something out, then closed the cupboard door. Turning back to us as we finished putting the chairs in place, she said, “Good. Now sit.” We sat. The words, in those large white chalk letters, could not go unnoticed on the chalkboard to our left. We also noticed the object that Ms. Drax now showed us.

She held it from a silver chain, three or four inches long. She pinched the chain in the fingers of her right hand. We let our eyes descend from her hand, down the chain, to the object. It dangled at the bottom of the chain.

The object was a green pendant, multi-sided and made of crystal. The color seemed to have lots of different shades, and the surfaces of the thing seemed to have lots of different shapes. Even before Ms. Drax gave the next instruction, I think all three of us were staring at it. I was definitely staring at it.

“Look at the object on the chain,” she spoke. Indeed, her words felt as much like a confirmation of what I was already doing as a command to do it. Yes, I looked.

“As you look at the object, see its shiny facets. See how they sparkle.” Yes. I saw. Logan to my right and Conor to Logan’s right seemed to as well. “As the facets sparkle, see how they move.” Yes. Wow. They do, I thought. “Follow their every move. As they shift and sparkle. Sparkle and change.” Wow, again. The way the things move! The crystal started to fascinate me.

“You are finding it harder and harder to think... harder and harder to pay attention... It is easier to just stare... Stare at the object... Stare and drift... In the sound of my voice...”

Someplace around that point in time, about the point in time Ms. Drax said these things about her voice, about how we have to listen to her voice, and it’s so easy to listen to her voice and just let the green crystal fill our minds—right around that point, I lost any sense of what was going on. Thinking back now, I can’t remember anything at all about the next part of what happened. When I try to figure it out, to think about what she said next, all I can see is the crystal. Green. Sparkling. Changing. Moving. It fills my awareness, and any memory or thought of the words Ms. Drax was speaking just melt into a rhythmic murmur somewhere deep inside me.

Oh, and another thing. When I try to think about what Ms. Drax did to us in this phase of the exercise, when I try to piece together any sense or meaning from the words she was reciting as she was showing us the green crystal pendant, I start to feel... well, yeah. How to describe it? I start to feel good. Like something is touching me, somewhere inside, and the feeling it makes is good. Actually, the feeling it makes is really, really good. And that feeling lingers as I ease back into not caring about the details. The details slip away in the good sensations that flood me whenever I try to remember them. Then I just get on with what I was doing before I tried to remember.

So, up to this point in the exercise, here’s what I do remember: Ms. Drax chided us for being late; kept us after class; wrote a couple of sentences on the chalk board; sat us down. She showed us a green crystal thing on a chain. Said a few words. I felt like I wanted to listen to her voice forever even though, after the first few words, I can’t remember a thing she said. And then I woke up.

It was as if I was waking up from a long, deep sleep. Conor and Logan are there in the chairs to my right, and they are stretching out and rubbing their eyes, just like me. The chain and crystal are nowhere to be seen. Ms. Drax stands in front of us.

We sit there. Relaxed. Feeling refreshed and at ease the way you might after a long sleep. I’m feeling a sense of expectation. It’s subtle, and it’s not as though I’m expecting any particular thing. It’s as though something inside me is in readiness, just waiting for something to happen, without knowing or anticipating what that something might be. Ms. Drax, her eyes running over each of us, considers us closely. She looks satisfied.

“How do you feel, Mr. Jefferson?”

Conor replies calmly. “Good. I feel good.”

“Good. And how about you, Mr. Ross?”

“Yeah. I feel great,” I reply.

“And is Mr. Wright okay?”

Logan nods in affirmation, still looking slightly dazed.

Ms. Drax speaks to the three of us now. “There was some confusion earlier about what boys do. You all came... in... when you were not supposed to. The exercise that you will perform today will clear up any confusion about that.”

“We were late,” I say, a bit dreamily.

In a tone of correction, Ms. Drax speaks directly to me: “You came. When you were not supposed to.”

I am slightly jolted by Ms. Drax’s tone, and then, almost immediately, I settle back down. As I relax, the words Ms. Drax just spoke feel like they’re soaking through my brain. “I came,” I say. “When I was not supposed to.”

“Yes,” Ms. Drax replied. Her affirmative tone makes me feel better. Also, that dazed feeling—the feeling that started when she made us look at that thing on the chain—it creeps back over me a bit. I had been starting to feel... normal... but Ms. Drax’s stern correction had sent me back deep into this weird, compliant state of vague anticipation.

“And Mr. Wright? Tell us what you did.”

Logan looks, uncharacteristically a bit meekly, then replies, “I came. When I was not supposed to.”

“Good. That’s correct.”

I think I see Logan’s face go a little slack.

“And Mr. Jefferson? What do you do?”

Conor replies, without hesitating despite the slight change in the way Ms. Drax phrased the question, “I come. When I’m not supposed to.”

“Yes. That’s correct. You come when you are not supposed to.” Addressing all three of us again, Ms. Drax continues. “Let us turn our attention back to the chalkboard.” We look over at the chalkboard. The words are still there.

“Mr. Jefferson, read the words you see on the chalkboard.”

“Good Boys Do Not Masturbate. Good Boys Do Not Cum.” Conor spoke the words calmly.

“Now Mr. Wright.”

“Good Boys Do Not Masturbate. Good Boys Do Not Cum.” Logan, too, said the words in a calm, even slightly drowsy, way.

“Mr. Ross, your turn.”

I find myself speaking without any deliberate effort to do so. The words just come out: “Good Boys Do Not Masturbate. Good Boys Do Not Cum.”

We all track Ms. Drax with our eyes, attentive students waiting for the next part of the lesson.

“So I am afraid there may be a contradiction between those words that each of you just read and your behavior. Mr. Jefferson seems to do it all the time, don’t you Mr. Jefferson?”

“Huh?” Conor replies, looking slightly confused.

“You said that you come when you are not supposed to.”

“I... yeaaaahh,” Conor says, relaxing into the idea. “I do.”

“And your friends do as well.”

“Woah. Hold on,” Logan says. He looks like he’s shaking off the daze and regaining full alertness. “It won’t happen again. We got to class late today, because it’s equipment handout. All the guys on the team had to be there, and...”

Ms. Drax raises a finger to her lips. Logan stops mid-sentence. Ms. Drax reaches into a pocket and pulls the crystal pendant out by its chain. She holds it up for Logan to see. Logan’s eyes roll up into his head, his eyelids flutter, and he stares at the crystal.

“You come when you are not supposed to, don’t you, Logan?”

“I come when I am not supposed to,” Logan replies as the words sink in.

“Yes. That’s right. And you do, too, Brendan. You come when you are not supposed to.” The green of the crystal, its translucent shifting shapes, Ms. Drax’s voice, the sound—these flood my awareness. I can barely think. However, I hear myself speak, in much the same tone as Logan just did.

“I come when I am not supposed to.”

“Good. We have established that all of you are boys who come when you are not supposed to. Turn your attention again to the chalkboard.”

We all comply with Ms. Drax’s instruction. The instant I see the words on the chalkboard, they seem to swim and undulate and flood, like a liquid current, straight into my brain. “GOOD BOYS DO NOT MASTURBATE. GOOD BOYS DO NOT CUM.” The words. The crystal. It’s all I can see or feel or think or hear. My eyes feel funny, like they are inflating, little balloons that can only expand wider and wider, more and more open. The words pour right through there, right through my eyes. “GOOD BOYS... DO NOT...MASTURBATE. GOOD BOYS ... DO NOT... CUM.”

Tranced confessions

How long I sat like that I have no idea. It might have been only a couple of seconds, but it felt like hours. Hours of a deep, needful, pleasuring flood of sensation coursing through my mind. Good Boys Do Not Masturbate. Good Boys Do Not Cum. For all that time, which might have been no time at all, those words soaked and caressed every part of my being.

A loud snap of fingers jolts me. I feel my senses return. The room. Logan and Conor. And foremost: Ms. Drax, who stands in front of us.

“So, you see, like I said. A contradiction. Good boys,” Ms. Drax continues with a slight, almost pitying pout, “Do NOT masturbate. Good boys do NOT cum. But...” and now she becomes stern, almost angry, “You have been coming when you are not supposed to.” Ms. Drax paces across the floor in front of us, her stiletto heals making determined clacking sounds with each footfall. Stopping and turning to us, she resumes speaking: “It is time to talk about how this contradiction has come about. And to fix it.” She eyes the three of us. “Conor Jefferson,” she commands. “Get up.” He does. “Face your classmates.” He does. “When was the last time you came when you were not supposed to?”

“I... I came this morning.”

“Where?”

“In the shower... before school...”

“How?”

“I...” Conor’s hesitation looked almost pleading.

“How, Conor Jefferson? How did you come this morning in the shower before school?”

“I...”

“How did you COME?” Ms. Drax repeats angrily.

“Please, Ms. Drax...” tears begin to form in Conor’s eyes. “Please... I... I...”

“You ‘what’? Tell us.”

“I masturbated!” Conor finally blurts out, now balling with tears.

“How did that make you feel, Conor?”

“It made me feel dirty, Ms. Drax! Like a filthy, naughty pervert! Please, Ms. Drax...”

“And before this morning? When did you last come before this morning?”

As if the opening of his tear ducts also opened a flow of compliance and confession, Conor now answers without hesitation through pleading, pathetic sobs. “I came last night in bed by masturbating.”

“And before that?”

“I came yesterday afternoon after school by masturbating.”

“And before that?”

“I came yesterday morning...”

“HOW?” Ms. Drax demands, unrelenting.

“By masturbating!” Conor answers through tears.

“And before that?”

“Every day, Ms. Drax. I do it twice, three times a day. I masturbate all the time,” Conor is now barely able to keep himself together.

“Turn around,” Ms. Drax commands in a tone of disgust. “Read that.”

Now facing the chalkboard, Conor recites the words. “Good Boys Do Not Masturbate. Good Boys Do Not Cum.”

“Sit down,” Ms. Drax dismisses him. He sinks back into his chair, holding his head in his palms, elbows on his thighs.

“Brendan Ross, stand.” I comply.

Though now, thinking back on it, it’s clear what Ms. Drax had in store for me, the dazed sensation that continued to saturate my body and my mind removed any anxiety at all from me. I just stood there and waited, attentive to Ms. Drax.

“When did you last have the urge to cum?” Ms. Drax’s interrogation begins.

“This afternoon. In class as you were teaching us,” I reply.

“And what did you think about doing when you felt that urge?”

“Getting to someplace where I can masturbate.”

“I see. And when did you last cum?”

“Last night.”

“Do you cum often?”

“Yes.”

“How often?”

“Once every day or so.”

“Do you ever think you would like to cum when you are studying.”

“Yes.”

“When you are at football practice.”

“Yes.”

Up to that point, the answers were easy to give. Obviously, in retrospect, it was not normal to be answering such questions in front of my buddies, nor was it normal for a teacher to be asking me them. The hazy, trancey feeling just made answering, up to that point, very easy. Actually, I felt there was no choice. The words, my answers, just came out of my mouth without thought or effort.

Then Ms. Drax asked a different question. A very, very different question.

At our age at that time, though most guys talked a lot about fucking this girl or that, not many of us really had done it. I had not done it. I certainly came a lot. But it was never through sex with another person. It was always—each and every time—THAT way.

I wasn’t from a religious family. Nobody had ever told me it was bad to play with myself. It had not been part of my code up to that point to feel any fear about revealing that I did. Sure, there was the natural embarrassment of talking about private stuff like that. A hesitation to over-share. Somehow, whatever Ms. Drax had done to us made the embarrassment and the hesitation disappear, at least when it came to talking about our urges and how much we like to cum. We were all complying perfectly to her instructions, and we were answering her intruding and inappropriate questions without thought or pause. But now, as I was about to discover, and as Conor had already learned, this easy compliance and ready openness weren’t the only changes Ms. Drax had made in us. I had just easily answered “Yes” to whatever question Ms. Drax had asked. Indeed, answering her questions up to this point even felt kind of nice, because a pleasant sensation gently passed over me each time I answered. But then came THAT question.

“Brendan, now answer me this: DO YOU MASTURBATE?”

A wave of dizziness slams into my brain. I feel like I’m going to lose balance and fall. That widening, opening feeling in my eyes hits me. Like the little balloons again. So wide. So open.

“Answer... the... question, Brendan.” Ms. Drax’s voice steadies my balance but slams me with a new sensation. It’s the words. The words on the chalkboard. And the truth they speak. The command they convey. The imperative they impose. All I can think is the words—and how they clash with everything I do. With my every stroke. My every thrust. My every wet, sticky release. Indeed, just last night, I was doing this naughty, awful thing... this thing that contradicts the ultimate power and truth of the universe. And which is so utterly DIRTY.

“I...”

“You must answer. You have no choice.”

“I...” my mind cries out, and the tears begin to gush from my eyes. “Please... no...” Meanwhile, it’s like jolts of energy, gallons of blood, are penetrating my groin. Perversely, my trousers tent from the jutting strain of a rampant, nearly painful erection.

“ANSWER THE QUESTION.”

“I... Yes...”

“Say it. Say what you DO.”

“I... I masturbate.” My sobbing rises to uncontrollable spasms of regret and fear and humiliation. The sensations feel as if they are welling up from the depths of my being. I couldn’t name any worse crime or offense if I had a million years to search for one. Because GOOD BOYS DO NOT MASTURBATE. GOOD BOYS DO NOT CUM. And I so, so, SOOOO want to be a good boy... My trousers started to show an expanding spot of moisture.

“How often do you MASTURBATE?”

“I... please...”

“HOW OFTEN DO YOU MASTURBATE?”

“Please, Ms. Drax... I...” Loosing control completely, I babble my confession through sobs and tears and, unbelievably, the hottest most urgent arousal I’d ever experienced. “I masturbate all the time! Oh fuck. Oh please. I hump my pillow to masturbate. I stroke my cock to masturbate. I masturbate every day, Ms. Drax! I’m so fucking dirty!”

Ms. Drax dismisses me from interrogation, and I sit back down, inconsolable and anguished, and at the same time craving some word, some permission, some release that would let my swollen cock expel the boiling load inside me. Conor, who is sitting back up and whose sobs have subsided into sniffles, barely pays me any attention.

“Logan Wright. Stand.” Logan stands. “How often do you MASTURBATE?”

The question stuns Logan. Ms. Drax interrogates and cajoles him much as she did Conor and me. He eventually confesses, through tears and sobs, much the same as we did. Logan too acknowledges how much he masturbates and how filthy boys are who touch themselves that way.

We now are in our chairs. Ms. Drax proceeds with the exercise.

“Though you all know that good boys do not masturbate and good boys do not cum—and you all crave to be good boys—you do masturbate; and you most certainly CUM when you are not supposed to.” It is in the pouting, fake-sympathetic voice she says these words. But then she speaks again as the stern instructor: “The time has come... to resolve the contradiction.”

Teacher adjusts us

What happened next is one of those parts that remains vague and hard to perceive as I look back and try to remember it. What I do remember is that Ms. Drax pulled out that pendant again. And I do remember how good it feels when the green, sparkling light across its changing surfaces fills my awareness. That’s what happened. Plus, through the haze of that pleasure, and the pleasure that comes to me even now as I try to piece together the details, I recall an ambiguous sensation of sound and movement, as if somebody was telling me to do something, and I was doing exactly as she said. Whatever her words were, and whatever I was doing, I had a raging desire to obey her every command. To be her good boy.

The same as happened earlier in the exercise, I came back into awareness all of a sudden, with the sound of Ms. Drax making a single, loud snap of her fingers.

Except for socks and t-shirt, my clothes are gone. I am on my feet. My feet are close together. I am bent over at the waist. My arms hang down in front of me to my toes. My hamstrings are stretched from the position my torso is in. But that’s not the stretch I notice most. Some sort of device has closed around my scrotum. My sac is caught between two wooden slats, penis to the front, balls to the rear. The wooden slats run across my hamstrings just below my ass cheeks. They pull my testicles away from my penis. In fact, they pull my testicles back, way back, so they’re practically behind my ass. It feels like this thing, this wooden device, is designed to put as much distance as possible between my balls and my pelvis. The pull the device exerts causes my penis to point downward. It points sharply, because it is hard.

I’m aware that somebody is to my right, probably Logan, but I keep my head hung low and my eyes facing my down-turned erection. I keep this position. I do not move. I am not supposed to move. There might as well be shackles on my ankles and my wrists, straps to hold my head, even threads of some sort to hold the direction of my eyes, which are locked on the pathetic sight of my dirty, needful boy-part. There are no shackles though, not of a physical sort anyway. I just stay like this. It is my only choice, my only purpose. I am not supposed to move. Somehow, I know this, and it might as well be the only fact of my existence. I so need to be a good boy. It is so very, very RIGHT that a dirty boy... be punished.

The wooden slats that pull my balls back and my dick downward, those are physical. They really are there. I can see them a bit through the thin space that the narrow stance of my feet leaves open between my thighs. I don’t know how it got here. I don’t know how this device came to be on me. My scrotum is somehow clamped, my entire package straining at this unfamiliar angle.

And a thick, clear bead of pre-cum is forming at my cum slit. I stare and obey. I need to be a good boy. I need to cum. I wanna touch it. I wanna take my thumb and forefinger and just play a tiny bit with its head. To feel the slick wetness of that clear fluid beading up on it. But the very thought of that... the very thought of even the slightest touch with erotic intent... it makes me feel so... DIRTY.

“Good boys do not masturbate,” I hear Ms. Drax behind us say. “Good boys do not cum.” Oh god. This feels so right. “Good boys do NOT masturbate,” She states for emphasis. “Good boys do NOT cum.”

Yes! My heart and soul affirm Her words.

“But these boys even LOOK like they’ve been masturbating. It was obvious from the moment they entered the room. Dirty, filthy boys, each of you, a pathetic fist-pumping wank slut.”

I feel my heart skip a beat and a catch form in my throat. Oh no, please, I think. Please. No. I will be a good boy. I must be a good boy. Please, Mistress. Please.

“And with a tiny bit of coaxing, each of you has confessed. Confessed to your rampant, pathetic habit.”

Mistress! My mind almost screams, but only inside. My tongue remains still. I do not speak, even as a look of panic must be crossing my face. Please Mistress! My cock, if this is possible, grew even harder, an enraged, restrained organ, and the object of my filthy, dirty habit.

“That’s alright,” coos Mistress Drax. “That’s okay, my dear sweet boys. You have received a lesson today. You have been re-programmed. I have opened your testosterone-addled minds and adjusted you, from the inside out. I have re-wired your silly craving, your craving to stroke, hump, rub, fuck, and spill. Your craving now runs in a different path. It runs in the path of submission, the path of service. Because you now submit, my pretty boys. Your only purpose is to serve and to obey.” Hearing these words from Mistress, my mind, my body, my very soul snap into a new and wonderful state.

Yes! This is so right, I feel it in every fiber of my being. I serve. I obey. Mistress controls me. I really AM Her good boy.

“But boys are superficial creatures, I’m afraid. Adjusting a boy from the inside out does wonders for his psyche, as you all can feel. But it’s time to adjust you from the OUTSIDE, IN.”

The click-click-click of Mistress’s shoes, as She seems to be stepping away to get something. The same click-click-click as She returns.

A sharp fingernail from the scruff of my neck down my spine, trailing off just at the small of the back. I hear Mistress speak to me. “Good boys do not masturbate. Good boys do not cum,” She says almost in whisper. “Slave 27: You have masturbated. And you cum when you are not supposed to. WHAT DO YOU NEED?”

The name. It’s mine. It always has been. It is what I am. A slave. A number. Nothing more. Nothing less. I am slave 27. And Mistress’s question. I know the answer. I crave to answer that question. And Mistress has asked it. So I must speak. It is not permission to speak. It is a command. My voice activates. I speak calmly and submissively. “Mistress, I have masturbated, and I have cum when I am not supposed to. Good boys do not masturbate. Good boys do not cum. Boys who masturbate need punishment. Boys who cum when they are not supposed to need punishment. I need punishment, Mistress.” My cock nearly spasms at these words, even as the rest of my body from head to toe stays still and fixed in position.

“That’s right, slave. You need punishment.”

“Slave 18,” I hear her speak to the boy next to me. “Good boys do not masturbate. Good boys do not cum. You have masturbated. And you come when you are not supposed to. WHAT DO YOU NEED?”

I hear a vaguely familiar voice but in an unfamiliar, almost feminine tone, reply, “Mistress, I have masturbated, and I have cum when I am not supposed to. Good boys do not masturbate. Good boys do not cum. Boys who masturbate need punishment. Boys who cum when they are not supposed to need punishment. I need punishment, Mistress.”

And finally: “Good boys do not masturbate. Good boys do not cum. Slave 30, you have masturbated. You have cum when you are not supposed to. WHAT DO YOU NEED?”

And the response, in a tone that sounds eager, almost greedy: “Mistress, I have masturbated. Mistress, I have cum. Good boys do not masturbate. Good boys do not cum. Boys who masturbate need punishment. Boys who cum need punishment. I need punishment, Mistress.”

I hear Mistress’s heels across the floor behind me. I can feel Her presence. She is now directly behind me. Then the sound of a THWACK. And the sting of something hitting my scrotum. The sting both shocks me and sends a thrill up my spine. Then the pain. A deep, radiating pain from my balls up into my solar plexus. I let out a muffled “unnnhh!”

Just as the pain is reaching its highest intensity, its furthest inward, upward reach, I hear a similar thwack to my right, and another male voice let out a similar grunt of pain. And scarcely a few seconds later, it happens again, from slightly further to my right. The sting from the ball-strike has subsided on my scrotum, but the pain lingers slightly, when I feel Mistress in position behind me again, and a second strike lands on my restrained and vulnerable balls. “Unnnh!” I half-grunt, half-moan, as the sensation reaches up again inside me, this time more intensely than the first. The other two boys make similar sounds after similar thwacks.

And now the pattern repeats. Over and over. At one point, there comes a strike much harder than any that came before. I would double over in pain on the floor if Mistress’s power did not hold my body in this posture of tranced obedience. “UNNHHH!!!” I let out, more a scream this time than a grunt. Mistress is punishing my slave-brothers the same way, and they too scream in turn.

All the while, my penis, in its dirty, needful engorgement, looks dirtier and more needful than ever. Painfully hard. Jutting downward. Dripping. Dripping more. Copiously leaking a humiliating stream of pre-jizz. The pain, the punishment, it brings me so close. The precipice of the dam, the edge past which the contents of my restrained balls would spill in ribbon after ribbon of gooey white hotness—that is all that fills my mind. And yet all I do is drip and leak. And, from somewhere inside me, I realize: this is what I need. This is what I want. Please, Mistress. Own this boy. Please, Mistress. Control my orgasm. GOOD BOYS DO NOT MASTURBATE. GOOD BOYS DO NOT CUM.

THE END