The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Life Skills

(mc mf ff bd hm)

by Blue Kahuna

CHAPTER ONE

Derek and I decided to have our check-in dinner at the Korean barbecue place down the street from my apartment. The booths were private and the food was delicious.

Our relationship was going well. We had been dating for about a year, and I was beginning to think maybe Derek would be the one. I had decided during high school that I didn’t want to sleep with a man until it looked like things were headed for marriage, so we’d been holding off until now. Our relationship was satisfying and good. We certainly enjoyed the sex we were having; I had been performing fellatio on him, which he absolutely loved (and so did I). He sometimes went down on me too, which was nice enough but not as hot as the well-practiced expert blowjobs I loved giving him.

I dressed nicely for our dinner, in a long flowy skirt with my favorite green-triangle pattern around the hem, a nice blouse, and a crisp-looking sweater and chic little shawl. I did my hair in some braids with a fun little fascinator to top them off. Derek looked nice, too, in a henley shirt and some casual jeans. Looking nice is important to us.

We’d met in college—we were lab partners in physics class, and got along well. We ended up kissing at a party, and going on dates afterwards. He’d dated several women before me, and wasn’t a virgin. I was still a virgin, by choice. I had dated two other men, Curtis and Luke, but had broken up with both of them because of a lack of compatibility.

And now we were going over the details to see if we’d want to start having sexual intercourse. We were leaning toward yes. He was in grad school still, but was working a good job as a teacher’s assistant and had some tutoring gigs. I had decided to go into tech work instead of staying in physics. Money was good enough that we could talk about maybe moving in together.

Derek ordered for us—we came here for our check-in dates regularly, so we both knew our usual preferences—and smiled proudly as he slid an envelope over. Cabins up in the mountains nearby—reservations for a month from now. I looked at the place and nodded with approval.

“It looks beautiful,” I said. He knew what I meant by that. He shifted a little in his seat and I imagined his erection, imagined how excited he was getting at the prospect of fucking me. I smiled at him coyly, and thought about how much fun it would be to give him a blowjob later.

I pride myself on my blowjobs. I practice an hour or two a week on them, with a dildo I bought just for that purpose. I watch instructional videos suggesting new techniques. I analyze each little move of them, keep terminology for them and learn to improve. I know the right way to please a man with my mouth, every step from the initial rush of getting him hard to the sweet brutality of a wonderfully rough throat-fucking. I know how to do them right. Luke had wanted me to do them the wrong way, and that was the end of that. There’s a correct position with the hands, a twist just so, a squeeze along the shaft on the backstroke to make the corpus spongiosum go rigid. Luke had wanted me to use more teeth and start really sloppy—and that just wasn’t compatible. I didn’t want to learn bad habits, so I moved on.

“I’ve gotten a new round of tests,” I told him, “Still all negative, of course.” I pulled them from from purse and slid them over for him to expect.

Before he did, though, I heard a voice behind me.

“Your heart’s going watery now,” the man said, “floating free in the stars, like a perfect angel.”

I felt relaxed at his words, and looked up and smiled at the man. He was in his early-fifties, well-dressed.

“Can I help you?” Derek asked the man tensely.

He touched my shoulder affectionately. “What’s your name?” he asked me, ignoring Derek.

“Michelle,” I said, eyes big with adoration, shoulders relaxed back, turning to face him more openly.

“Let’s see more of your tits, Michelle,” he suggested in the most convincing way.

I took off my sweater and shawl with a languid gesture, and started unbuttoning my shirt.

“We’re actually having a private dinner,” Derek barked at the man, his voice grating, ruining my relaxation. I winced and ignored Derek’s tiresome words, still unbuttoning my shirt and pushing my chest toward the man for him to enjoy.

“Michelle, tell this loser to back off, please,” he asked me graciously.

“Derek, it’s okay,” I told him. I dropped my blouse behind me and reached back to unhook my bra, but the man gestured for me to stop. I’m not generally the type to show off much in public at all, but here, now, it just made sense.

The man reached down and squeezed my breasts appreciatively. We shared a smile.

“You’re nicely stacked, Michelle,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said with a smile, leaning forward a little more to enjoy his hands on me, “I’m glad you like them.”

“Why don’t you break up with this loser and come with me?” he suggested, moving out of the way so I could stand.

“Now wait a fucking minute—” Derek said rudely, irritating our moment together.

I stood and tried to make the best of his awkward moment.

“Goodbye, loser,” I said to Derek, “I’ll send a friend to pick up my books. We’re finished.”

I took the man’s arm and we sailed out the door. I barely noticed Derek shouting and following us, I was so wrapped up in our connection. I enjoyed the eye-popping stares of strangers ogling my tits as we walked down the block, but more than that I enjoyed the feeling that I was baring myself at this man’s suggestion. Fortunately Derek didn’t bother us once we were driving away in the man’s very nice car.

“There’s a bondage club downtown,” he suggested, “Let’s start there.”

He put on some music—a lovely blend of electronica and classical.

“Would you like a blowjob while you drive,” I asked him, eager to serve him with my mouth and hands.

“Not until we’re in the club,” he said smoothly, “but why don’t you tease your clit along the way?”

I purred and followed his instructions eagerly. I hiked up my skirt, with my favorite pattern, but didn’t remove my black satin panties. I slipped them aside and enjoyed the hardening swell of my clit. I was happy just to stare at this beautiful man and masturbate for the whole fifteen minute drive, barely noticing time go by.

Sometimes, at a red light, the man would reach over and grope my breasts, sliding his hand under the bra to pinch by tight, hard nipples. I thanked him with a grunt when I did, and felt my hips thrust involuntarily in instinctive arousal, responding to his touch.

By the time he parked the car I was thinking about nothing but sex. I wrapped myself around him as we walked into the bondage club. I didn’t really much notice as he paid the fare, and breezed through signing all the forms, thinking more about the ache of my eager pussy than the text I was ignoring. The man behind the front desk enjoyed my breasts spilling out over my bra, and I enjoyed the flush of embarrassment at a stranger’s attention. Usually that sort of attention might bother me, but here and now, I wanted everyone to see how sexy I was for this man.

He led me to a changing area.

“Strip fucking naked,” he said. I didn’t usually like being naked, even when giving a blowjob to my boyfriend. I didn’t hesitate for an instant.

As he led me to one of the playspace benches, I saw everyone’s eyes on me. I was young, busty, virginal, uncovered. My pussy was completely shaven like a porn star’s, unprotected and uncovered so that I’d be more sexy for whoever I chose to share my body with.

Right now, that was everyone. I felt myself get more wet with every leering glance as I followed the man. This was all new to me, but I knew where I belonged: wherever he put me.

I stood in front of him as he sat, ready to sink to my knees in front of him, but he stopped me.

“Before I fuck your mouth, I want to spank you,” he said casually. We didn’t need to negotiate. I was eager to do what he said, no matter what it might be.

I didn’t want him to spank me. The idea of it never had occurred to me as sexy, and it seemed wrong somehow. The idea of being spanked at all seemed too humiliating, like I was a helpless child who’d done wrong. Doing it in front of the growing crowd surrounding us and watching us was simply unthinkable. My pussy clenched and I felt all squishy inside. My knees shook.

I leaned forward into his lap without hesitation, bare ass in the air ready for punishment.

Within a minute, I was sobbing uncontrollably from the repeated impact of his bare, punishing palm. I switched and cried and yelped and begged. He went roughly with me, tanning my ass bright lobster red with a brutal, unhesitating hand.

I’d never been spanked before that. I was shaking all over. The crowd gasped in awe at my subjugation and helplessness. My cunt couldn’t stop clenching and my hips couldn’t stop humping. I wanted to ask him if I could masturbate, please, but I couldn’t choke the words out and he was too busy slapping my ass.

There was nothing left of me but crying and pain and total, blind, loving trust. I lost count. I lost track of time. Eventually I realized that the crowd was applauding and he was saying something to them.

And he must have said something to me, too, because I obeyed it and finally slide off him, onto my knees. He stood up briefly and unzipped his pants, pulled them down, let me look at his beautiful penis.

He looked me in the eyes, calm and intimate. I looked back through tears, frightened and trusting.

He slapped my face, hard, and I felt myself crying again.

“I love you,” I told him with gratitude, looking back at him with absolutely sincerity.

He slapped me again.

“I love you,” I said once more, my stomach tightening with fear and shame. I loved him.

“Suck my cock, slut,” he said with perfect angelic grace. I felt relief somehow, to drift back to such familiar territory.

I took his semi-erect penis in my hand, holding it by the underside, stroking it with a very gentle counterclockwise quarter-turn with each stroke. He leaned back. After three strokes, he was ready and I put him in my mouth. I looked up at him through my tears.

There are four correct ways to look up at a man while serving him with a blowjob, depending on the circumstance: as a gentle question of what he’d prefer, or as a gesture of submission and servitude, or as a calm recognition of connection, or simply to watch his reaction to determine what to do next.

This was the second: a look of loving helplessness, an expression of servitude.

He muttered what he wanted, quietly, and I complied eagerly. I knelt in front of him, writhing a bit. arousing myself with my own thighs as my body turned and twisted to accommodate my motions. Sometimes my soft pillowy tits brushed against his knees as I rocked back and forth. I moaned around his dick. I cupped and tickles his balls at first to heighten his sensation, and pumped my fist in time with his pleasure, but more and more focused on keeping my lips soft and supple and perfectly wrapped to the contour of his shaft.

His directions were simple and clear, aimed at maximizing his pleasure. My comfort was not important here, and he didn’t care that my knees or jaws were hurting.

I was at peace there, my mouth getting fucked rougher and rougher, my heart watery, floating free in the stars like a perfect angel.

I realized, idly, that the precise instructions he gave me used the same terminology I used for myself when perfecting my cocksucking technique. Word for word, he knew my words for each motion.

I remembered why.

* * *

As a high school senior, once I reached the age of adulthood, I took a Life Skills class after school, an optional program to teach good decisions: about careers, about relationships, about school and home and, yes, about sex.

It was an upscale suburban town, about an hour from the big city, but often very isolated. The town kept to itself for the most part.

There were three groups in those Life Skills classes: one all boys, one all girls, and mixed. The all-girls group was, by coincidence, composed mostly of the most attractive girls in the school. The classroom was more soundproofed.

The classes taught a lot of things. Critical thinking skills. How to plan and budget things. And somewhere in the middle, each class, the teachers (a beautiful woman and a dignified man) would guide us into a trance.

We wouldn’t remember what happened in those trances the next day, but the lessons would stay with us. We learned to dress attractively but modestly. We learned the importance of safe sex. We learned to choose our partners carefully, and to save our virginity until a relationship looked ready for marriage.

We learned to masturbate frequently but quietly. We learned to avoid showing ourselves off in public, to feel uncomfortable with being on display, to refuse it whenever we had the chance. But we learned just as well the forced rush of intense libido in the moments when we were put on display despite our refusal.

The teacher would lecture to us on how to be.

“Every beautiful woman’s cunt should be shaved bare,” she said, “unless she is a natural redhead. Pubic hair is a luxury only deserved by pale, freckled gingers.”

After the first few classes, she began to give lectures nude.

The man would fuck her mouth, and she would love it. We would watch her every precise movement with hungry jealous attention.

She told us all, in our trusting hypnotic trances, the importance of perfect well-practiced fellatio. She told us the right way to suck a cock—the exact terms for every little motion.

She told us to practice. To buy a dildo and service it, slobber on it like whores, let the dildo fuck our throats. We learned to make ourselves horny slut bitches, desperate for cocksucking, eager to be useful.

The male teacher, Mr. Jefferson, would in time let us suck him off. He would tell us what we were doing wrong, and our cunts would clench with humiliation. He would rape our mouths. Sometimes we would writhe and moan in frustrated arousal. Sometimes he would instruct us to masturbate, and we would come like hot filthy whores.

We learned our keywords and hypnotic triggers easily, our guides back to this perfect place of helpless subjugation. We learned to carefully meter our sexuality, to hold ourselves back conservatively unless we were induced and brought out, and then to give ourselves away without hesitation.

We were beautiful nymphs in that class, nude or clothed as the teachers wished, learning in our dream-language, perfect fuckable slaves. We pressed our flesh against each other, learned to perform and display our soft young bodies for the teachers.

Ms. Kekoa was beautiful as well, with her long black hair and her elegant Hawaiian features. and her stories suggested she had been in the same class before us. She shaved her cunt bare, the way we should. She studied and practiced how to wrap her lips around a man’s cock to please him best, how to open her throat to accept his rough thrusts, how to writhe in helpless lust when triggered.

During the day she was a prim mathematics teacher, fending off the crushes of students and parents and teachers with equal grace. But in those classes, when we were under trances, she led us down the path of lust and submission.

We learned modesty in dress, wrapping our sleek and eager bodies in carefully-perfected clothes. We learned to love that green triangle pattern that would mark us as the precious fuckable few.

Oh, how they used us. They trained us. I learned to lick Ms. Kekoa to come, to love the taste of her juices. But I did more than learn how to suck Mr. Jefferson off. It became a part of my being and purpose.

Every day after school, after an hour of valuable lectures on leading a healthy life, they would entrance us and strip our delicate virginal bodies and rape our mouths, and we would learn that what we wanted was not as important as how to surrender our beauty and our innocence, eagerly, to the rape and torture of those who controlled us.

* * *

I was horrified by the memories rushing to me, even while my throat was expertly milking this man’s rock-hard cock. My right hand was twisting and pinching my sore nipples and tits. My left hand was flicking my clit as I bucked lewdly, on the aching verge of orgasm.

He gasped and gripped the back of my head. I felt like I was going to die.

It didn’t matter: I felt just as much that I would let him choke me to death with his cock if it would make his orgasm just a hair’s breadth more intense.

I shuddered in realization. I was exposed and naked, writhing like a worthless horny bitch in front of a leering crowd. I didn’t want to be there and it didn’t matter.

Maybe I’d come out of the trance. I couldn’t even tell anymore. But I was aware of how much I’d been used—the legacy of suppression and manipulation. The memories they’d taken from me. The private moments they’d forced on me.

A high school girl shouldn’t learn the mysteries of sex by the cynical instruction of a hypnotic rape camp. A college girl shouldn’t be subconsciously practicing for some unknown future subjugation. A young woman falling in love shouldn’t be dragged away from her future husband to become the flavor of the night for a horny stranger.

But I couldn’t say no as he instructed me to stand.

I couldn’t cover my swollen, forced-eager cunt from the crowds, with clothes or even my hands.

I couldn’t stop him from slapping my face again, or hold back the conditioned response of “I love you” even as I cried at my helplessness.

I couldn’t refuse him an honest answer when he asked me if I was a virgin.

I couldn’t decide what parts of my life I wanted to keep and what parts I wanted to change and make my own.

He slapped my face again and I told him I loved him and I meant it, despite how much I hated him. We kissed sweetly like lovers, tongues slippery against each other, his hand brushing my hair.

He took my hand and guided it to his cock, slick from my early ministrations. I stroked him lightly, expertly. I had already learned and practiced how to touch him exactly the ways he wanted.

We continued kissing. He grew excited again, and kissed me more ferociously. I pushed my body toward him and carefully brought him back to full staff.

“Usually I don’t wind up with sluts that have tits as big as yours,” he said coolly, looking at my body like it was meat for him to buy or ignore as he liked.

And to be fair, it was.

“Thank you,” I said, blushing, hating every word.

“My instructors usually lean toward picking girls on the skinny side, which usually means they end up a little flat-chested. But you—Michelle, was it?—I like how full and soft your tits are. D-cups?”

“Double D,” I told him, still looking down. His hips thrust a little as I continued to stroke him, and I leaned back to display them better for him.

“Yes, it’s Michelle,” I added, realizing he’d asked me two questions, unable to resist obediently answering.

He slapped me across the face again, much harder this time. My jaw sang with pain. I nearly fell to the ground, my knees were so weak.

“I love you,” I told him all the same, looking into his cruel impersonal eyes with an expression of helpless submission.

“Hop on,” he said, “Let’s test you out.”

I slid on top of him without hesitation, his cock filling up my pussy. Even as eager as I was, it hurt and felt tender.

I thought of Derek and the special first moment that had just been robbed from us. My vision blurred from tears.

He grabbed my hips and rocked me back and forth on his thrusting cock. I wanted to ask him to wear a condom but I couldn’t. All I could do was cry and look him in the eyes and roll my hips to heighten his pleasure while he raped me.

The other instructors were preparation, nothing more. They planted suggestions in me in case he ever happened to wander by and decide to fuck me. That green triangle pattern at the hem was to mark me as available. Those instructions I’d carefully learned for my life were built to suit his hungry whim. My virginity was just to make sure that his latest fuck felt a little tighter.

The soreness started to fade as my physical arousal grew. He grabbed my breasts roughly and my body responded hungrily, following its deeply-coded instructions to be his perfect fuckable slut.

He was more than twice my age and I didn’t know his name. I felt myself wrap around him and I felt his hand wrap around my throat, sliding up from my breasts he’d enjoyed so callously. His hand around my neck went from gentle to firm. My hips kept bucking and rolling in time with his thrusts.

“I love you,” I told him again, eyes locked with his while he choked me, barely sure whether he’d just slapped me again or not. He said nothing that time, just grunted and sped up his pace.

I wondered if he’d make me pregnant. I wondered if I was still in a trance or not. I wondered if I could come when he came inside me.

And then I felt a rush of despair and submission, followed by a rush of trust and love. I felt his shoulder muscles tighten, and his hips press roughly into me as his hands gripped my own hips tightly and shoved them toward him. He kissed me and grunted into my mouth as I felt my pussy contract around his spasming cock. He filled me with his orgasm and I gushed around his cock and went limp.

Then he leaned back and smiled at me and I whispered “Thank you” to him and wondered if I’d been ordered to say that too.

He slapped my thigh and I knew that meant it was time to stand off him. I looked at the crowd surrounding us, aware that this man could make me suck all of their cocks too if he’d wanted me to do so.

“Let’s go back to my place,” he said idly, and it was decided that we’d do exactly that.

He didn’t bother letting me get my clothes back on. He just brought me through the cold streets barefoot and nude, enjoying my discomfort as he showed me off, whisking me away from my life and into servitude as his latest disposable fucktoy.