The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Fiona clutched her shortie pink St. Incundita bathrobe to her breasts and stared down at her bare feet, her face flaming. Beside her, Cindy fidgeted in her own brief robe. One side of the back of it was hiked up, revealing a creamy buttock. A stern-faced Ms Carver stood before the two girls, her arms crossed. “Whose idea was that little display?” she asked.

Cindy started to speak, but Fiona cut her off: “Mine. I’m sorry, Cindy. I was—I’m so sorry. It’s, it’s like I t-told you, Ms Carver. I c-can’ t k-keep f-from—I’m just b-bad—” She couldn’t go on. Her voice shook with half-suppressed sobs.

Ms Carver sighed, shaking her head. “You mean you have those strong sexual feelings and urges that you talked to me about and you couldn’t help yourself. You were thinking about sex and simply. . . lost control. Is that it?”

Fiona nodded, miserably, feeling her eyes fill with tears and her throat clench painfully. She was going to be expelled. Her dad would be so angry. She’d have to leave home.

But to her surprise, Ms Carver patted her cheek reassuringly. “Now, now. Please don’t be so upset. After all, nothing really happened. This is partly my fault, you know. I suppose I should have taken your distress more seriously.”

“I started it, Ms. Carver,” murmured Cindy. “It wasn’t just Fi. She’s never, well, you know, she’s kinda innocent and all, and I was talking about sex and stuff, and—”

Ms Carver didn’t even look at her. “Cindy, you’re a St. Incundita girl.”

“Yes,” said Cindy in a strange, soft, faraway voice. She seemed to slump a bit as she stood beside Fiona.

“Don’t pay any attention to this, Cindy. Forget it after I leave. You will forget that I was here. Tell me that you will forget this visit.”

“I will,” agreed Cindy. Her voice sounded childish, absurdly eager to please, agreeable and submissive.

Paying Cindy no further attention, Ms Carver then said, “Fiona, you’re a St. Incundita girl.”

Fiona’s head felt funny, swimmy and pulsing. She felt herself sway and thought, God, don’t let me pass out! “I—I try to be,” she muttered. “I really w-want to be, b-but I’m b-bad. . . .”

She felt Ms. Carver cup her chin and hold her head up, so she looked straight into the older woman’s eyes. They were a striking color, a strange, pale, light hazel, an odd shade for a redhead. The counselor frowned at her, not in anger but in a thoughtful way. “Fiona,” she repeated firmly, “you are a St. Incundita girl.”

I am a St. Incundita girl, Fiona thought, and a warm sensation of relief washed over her. She said, “Yes. Tell me what to do.” It would be so good, so right, to please Ms Carver. To act as she directed. . . almost . . . to be her . . . slave. . . .

The counselor said firmly, “Now, listen to me, Fiona: You do need help, that’s clear. When are you out of class on Monday? You may answer me.”

“F-four o’clock.” It was so hard to focus. Fiona felt as though she were just dreaming all this, as though it were part of a nightmare. She had released her tight grip on her robe, and her hands had fallen limp to her sides. Vaguely she was aware that the robe had opened, that she stood there with her bare smooth pussy exposed to the world, but somehow it didn’t seem to matter.

“Relax, just relax,” cooed the redheaded counselor. Her face swam in Fiona’s vision. Her coppery hair, so short, almost like a boy’s haircut, spiky, her pale oval face, and her strange light-colored eyes, all wavered in Fiona’s eyes, like a face glimpsed behind a pane of glass running with a flow of water. “You trust me,” she said. “You are not afraid or worried. Fiona, you are a St. Incundita girl. You trust me utterly.”

Fiona swayed where she stood, feeling as though she were being caressed by the ebb and flow of warm, relaxing water. Ms Carver wanted to help her. It didn’t matter that she had seen her kneeling naked, her eager tongue touching Cindy’s pussy. Didn’t matter that she could see Fiona’s naked belly and sex right this minute. No, Ms Carver was kind and wise and good and wouldn’t let any harm come to her. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I do trust you.” She felt an upwelling of devotion within her, a devouring wish to please Ms Carver.

“Good. Fiona, you are a St. Incundita girl, and so I’m going to help you. At four-fifteen on Monday, you will come to my office for counseling. I will meet you at the same time every Monday and Wednesday. At four-fifteen P.M., every Monday and Wednesday, for one hour each day. You will come to my office and we’ll talk, and you will feel better after every talk we have. You will understand yourself more. You will be happier with yourself. You will be happy to come to my office. You will look forward to each visit, and after each one you will feel more strongly that you are a St. Incundita girl and that you must behave as one. Do you understand?”

“Y-yes.” Fiona understood that Ms Carver was a wonderful woman, that she actually cared.

Ms Carver reached down to the bed and picked up the realistic rubber cock. “Is this yours, Fiona?” She smiled, an ironic, indulgent smile, rather like a mother catching her little daughter sneaking a forbidden cookie just before dinner.

Then sudden tears of shame spilled out of Fiona’s eyes, rolled hot over her cheeks, dripped from her chin. She felt them spattering on her bare feet. Her throat closed on a hard knot of pain. She could not reply.

“You will answer me,” Ms Carver said decisively. “Fiona! Is this yours?”

“N-no, “stammered Fiona. “Cindy bought it and brought it back from t-town.”

Ms Carver waved the rubber dong in front of her, making it flex, its purple helmeted head bobbing an inch from her nose. “Did you use this on yourself, Fiona? Did you put this inside yourself?”

Fighting an urge to gag at the thought, Fiona whimpered, “N-no. I kissed it. I didn’t suck it or anything.”

“But you wanted to, didn’t you? Don’t cry any more, Fiona. Tell me and you will feel better about it. You will feel so much better if you give in and do what I say, everything I say. You will feel so much happier. Tell me what you wanted to do.”

Fiona tried to bite back the shameful admission, but she heard herself whispering, “I wanted to, to suck it and to feel it inside me, to push it into my, inside of me, but, but I didn’t. Cindy and I were busy p-playing, and we didn’t.” She gasped. She felt better all of a sudden, lighter, and she knew that Ms Carver had been right: Confession was good for her. She would be fine as long as she did everything Ms Carver said.

Ms Carver looked at her for a few seconds, and then tossed the dildo onto the bed. “Very good, Fiona. You have pleased me by telling me the truth. However, listen to me now: You will not pleasure yourself with this, do you understand? If it’s yours, get rid of it. If it’s Cindy’s, return it to her and don’t play with it. Fiona, you are a St. Incundita girl, and you have a responsibility to keep your virginity until you have permission to lose it. We know about Cindy’s experiences, and we know her needs are different from yours, so if she cares to . . . to use that, that is her business and you will not interfere, but you will not use it yourself. Do you understand?”

Fiona nodded.

“Fine. Now I am going to leave. Cindy, Fiona, you are both beginning to feel very sleepy. As I walk away, you will feel even sleepier with every step I take. You will not be able to keep your eyes open. You will want to go to bed and sleep as soon as I close the door behind me. It will feel so good to sleep, and you will sleep so soundly. You will not talk about this. You will not remember my visit. You will sleep until tomorrow morning, and when you wake up, this will just seem like a dream to you. You will feel refreshed and happy, and none of this will seem real. It will all seem just like a dream. Nothing but a dream.”

Beside Fiona, Cindy murmured something unintelligible but compliant. Fiona stood in what felt like thick, rolling fog. Her eyes were burning, and she felt so incredibly tired. Ms Carver walked deliberately away, high heels clicking on the tile floor, tic-toc, tic-toc. Like a grandfather clock counting off the seconds before the sandman arrived to . . . put good . . . little girls . . . to sleep. The counselor opened the door, and then flicked off the lights. The door softly closed behind her.

The music began. The window shade was not quite fully down, and from the campus outside, the yellow glare of the sodium-vapor safety lights seeped in, giving a dim illumination.

Cindy stirred first. “I’m going to bed,” she announced in a thick, sleep-starved voice, letting her robe drop to the floor.

Fiona couldn’t even answer her. She lay down, nearly collapsing, her head spinning, her eyes already closed. She vaguely felt her head touch the pillow. Within seconds she had fallen deeply asleep. And a few seconds after that, the quiet, sensual music faded a bit and the soft voice started:

You are so happy to be at St. Incundita. You belong here. You and all your classmates are like sisters. You are so happy.

Sleep deeply. Sleep now. Sleep, sleep.

Incundita girls love sex. You are an Incundita girl. . . .

Waking came slow, like wading ashore from a swim in a placid, shimmering sea as warm as blood. Fiona felt delicious and warm, as relaxed as if she actually were floating on that tropical sea, bobbing up and down. So warm, so soft, so fragrant.

Muzzily, Fiona realized she lay on her side in her narrow bed, spooned tightly against Cindy. They were both stark naked. Cindy’s round ass pressed against Fiona’s lower belly and thighs, and Fiona’s arm, thrown carelessly across Cindy’s torso, lay in just the right position for Fiona’s hand to cup Cindy’s big, soft breast, feeling the thrust of her semi-stiff nipple. Fiona’s cheek lay against Cindy’s round shoulder, and wisps of Cindy’s brown hair tickled Fiona’s nose. “Mm,” Fiona said, inhaling a deep breath of Cindy’s fleshy scent, and then she chuckled. She tweaked Cindy’s nipple teasingly. “Hey, Cin!”

“Hmm, go ‘way,” muttered Cindy in her grumpy early-morning voice. “’S too early.”

“Wake up, Cin, you big sleepyhead! You’re in my bed!”

“Wha?” Cindy sat up, rubbing her face. “Oh, God, what did we do last night? Was I drunk?”

“I think—” Fiona frowned. “I think we were talking sexy and got. . . tired? We, we watched that dirty movie for a while. And we just sort of dozed off? I had the most . . . incredible dreams.”

Cindy swung out of bed, stood, and bent over to retrieve her robe from the floor. Fiona admired the saucy way her pussy peeked from between Cindy’s thighs at her when she stooped, her legs slightly parted. Then, more fully awake, Fiona reached and tugged the sheet over her. Cindy pulled the robe on and tied the belt, tugging the short hem line down over her ass. The S/I insignia, embroidered in red on the pink velour, curved over her left breast. Yawning and blinking, Cindy ran her hand through her tousled brown hair. “God, I feel like I was totally wasted last night. Hey, did I tell you about doing the guy in the shop? That was sweet! Did I tell you that story?”

“Mm-hmm. And showed me this.” Fiona had been lying on something uncomfortable. It was a rubber cock. She waggled it and then handed it to Cindy. “This is yours. I don’t think I should be playing with it. You can use it if you want to, because. . .” Fiona frowned. “Because your needs are different from mine, so, so use it if you want to, but—”

Cindy grinned. “Can’t use it yet. Gotta put some batteries in it first, anyway. You got four AA batteries I can borrow? Okay, virgin, I know all this sex stuff embarrasses you. I’ll keep Mr. Dick Dong in my desk drawer, all right?”

“Um. Yeah.” Fiona yawned. She felt wonderful, refreshed and happy to be here on this splendid Sunday morning, with no homework to do and all of her classmates, no all of her sisters, to be with, all the lovely St. Incundita . . . girls.

But hadn’t there been a bad dream, too? Something about her and Cindy, and. . . and she had been kneeling, and. . . Cindy had been . . . pink and slippery . . . pulsing. No, that must have been—she couldn’t actually have done that. No. Frowning, Fiona tried to remember, but it was already faint and wispy in her head. Just a dream.

Nothing but a dream.

That afternoon, Cindy, with a roguish wink, took her dildo, now equipped with four AA-cells, next door to show to Trudy and June next door. Fiona tried to ignore the girlish giggles and then the suspicious silence from the next room. The squeals that followed left nothing to the imagination. Fiona could imagine them all stripped down, taking turns with the vibrating dildo. . . doing each other with it. Moodily, she watched the rest of the porn DVD, all alone. It made her feel weird, hot and tingling, dewy with a soft perspiration. On screen, two girls did each other, taking turns eating each other’s pussies, the way she and Cindy . . . no, she had just dreamed that. In the next segment, husband and wife took part in their first threesome with another man. The husband stood behind the attractive woman and fucked her like a dog, while she knelt on hands and knees and. . . and sucked the other guy’s cock. When it went off, he pulled out of her mouth and spurted cum all across her chin and nose, and she caught as much as she could in her open mouth. The woman looked delighted, smiling through streaks of creamy cum that dripped in stringy gobs down her face and off her chin.

Fiona made a disgusted face. It looked so. . . so . . . .

How does it taste? Does it taste nice? I wish I had a taste.

So disgusting, yes, it looked. . . .

Oh, God, she scooped some with her finger and sucked it, and now she’s licking, sucking, cleaning the man’s beautiful cock, oh, I wish, I wish, but I am a St. Incundita girl and I must . . . must obey. . .

First-time experiences, the DVD promised. A girl who, who let her boyfriend, oh, gross, put his thing in her, her backside there, in her rectum! And she played with herself while she sat on him and rode his rod, fingering her own clit, spreading it, the pink folds shiny and slick with her own excitement. Oh, Fiona thought, it would hurt, it would hurt so bad. Why did the bad girl look so joyous, as if she were enjoying that, that thing inside her, its slipping, slippery pounding? Were the girls next door doing that with Cindy’s dildo, were they pressing and pressing and feeling it slip into their, well, their. . . assholes. . . .

How does it feel? Hard, tight? Oh, how does it feel?

The hostess on the DVD had shed all of her clothes by the end of the movie, and she lay spread-legged, languorously stroking herself, her hips lazily moving as she brought herself to climax, describing the process in lewd, filthy language. “Oh,” she said, “I love to masturbate. Look at my pussy. Is my pussy wet? Is it dripping? Do you like my pussy? Would you like to eat my pussy?”

Yes. . . .

Furtively, Fiona slipped her panties down and began to stroke her own clit. Dirty, dirty, this was so naughty, so dirty, she was a bad girl, but it felt so nice, so pleasant to do that, to be bad. And she felt slick and wet, too, like the woman on the TV screen. She had . . . had dreamed of Cindy licking her . . .her heart was beating so fast, so hard. Fiona gasped as without warning her orgasm hit her, making her jerk in release. Oh, God, she was so bad. Couldn’t keep her mind off . . . off nasty things. She didn’t deserve to be a St. Incundita girl.

The next day, Monday afternoon, Fiona remembered she had an appointment with Ms Carver. She hurried straight from her last class to the Student Activities wing on the second floor of the Student Center, and the receptionist sent her straight back to the counselor’s office. “Hello, Fiona,” Ms Carver said with a bright smile. “You’re right on time.”

“Thanks,” Fiona said, inanely. She put her books down on a round table and darted a quick sideways glance at Ms Carver. She was so . . . so sleek and attractive, her red hair crowning a truly gorgeous face, her pale hazel eyes so striking. And her body, with its high, full breasts, looked younger than her actual age, gave such a ripe promise.

I’m so bad, Fiona thought despairingly.

Ms Carver had her sit in the big comfortable chair, and then walked around behind her to close and lock the door. “That’s a recliner,” she said. “There’s no room in here for a psychiatrist’s couch, but I want you to feel relaxed. First, though, I have something for you.”

“What?”

Ms Carver held out her hand. A little white pill rested on her palm and in her other hand she held a small cup of water. “Take this, please.”

Fiona wrinkled her nose. “Why? What is it?”

“It’s very mild, dear. It will help you relax.”

“I don’t like the thought of taking drugs,” Fiona said. “I hardly ever even take aspirin. Do I have to?”

“It would be for the best if you did. I know that discussing some subjects upsets you. This is just a sedative, and it won’t hurt you at all. Fiona, you are a St. Incundita girl. You trust me, don’t you?”

A sort of glow started inside Fiona. “I trust you,” she whispered. She swallowed the pill and chased it down with a sip of water.

“Take off your shoes if you’d like.”

“No, that’s all right,” Fiona said.

“Then just lie back in the chair. It’s really very comfortable.”

“Oh. Okay.” The chair reclined until Fiona was lying on her back, her feet propped up. “This is nice,” she said. She began to get that billowy, floating feeling again, as if she were lying on a raft at sea.

“Good,” Ms Carver said. She sat in her chair. “I want you just to relax and let your mind wander, Fiona. We’ll talk when you feel comfortable.”

“Okay.” Fiona felt limp, utterly at ease. Soon her lips felt a little numb, and then she found she had the urge to laugh at everything. “What did you give me?” she asked. “It makes me kinda light-headed.”

“It’s just a very mild sedative. Do you feel well, Fiona?”

“God, yes.” She giggled. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry for feeling good!” Ms Carver opened a notebook and took out a pen. “Fiona, I want to ask you a few questions. Just answer them honestly and then we’ll talk about your feelings.”

“All right.”

“Fiona, you are a St. Incundita girl.”

The strangest thing happened. Fiona had the sudden feeling she had risen right out of her body, her mind floating up like a helium-filled balloon bobbing up to the ceiling. Nothing seemed to matter. She felt great, but absolutely detached from her silly body with its too-small boobs. She stirred, kicking off the three-inch heels that were required for campus wear. Vaguely she heard them clatter to the floor.

“Fiona, do you hear me?”

“Mm-hmm,” agreed Fiona. Oh, this was like floating through the air.

“Fiona, have you ever had an orgasm?” Ms Carver asked.

Fiona giggled. “Yes. Two of them.”

“Just two?”

“Just two,” she agreed sadly. “I wish I could have more. They were. . . so. . . .so nice. . . .”

“Tell me about them.”

“Well,” Fiona said, “the first time I ever had one was when Cindy licked my pussy.” She broke off, embarrassed, and then heard herself ask in a strange, naughty-little-girl voice, “Can I say licked my pussy?”

“Of course you can. Fiona, you are a St. Incundita girl. Pussy is just a word.”

“Yeah. . . .” Unexpected tears stung her eyes. “I don’t want to be a lesbian, Ms Carter.”

“You can call me Alexandria. Do you think having an orgasm because a girl performed oral stimulation on you makes you a lesbian, Fiona?”

“Doesn’t it, Alexandria?”

“Not at all. A clitoris reacts to a man’s penis or tongue, but it can also react to a woman’s touch. A clitoris is a bundle of pleasure-receiving nerves. It doesn’t care what stimulates it. It simply serves the function of creating pleasure. You do understand that your body exists so you can please others and be pleased in return?”

“I love sex,” Fiona heard herself say. “I love talking about it, the thought of it. B-but it scares me, too. My mother always, always, she said that it was dirty, you know, if you—if you did that kind of thing, you were a b-bad girl.”

“People used to think that. Today we know that sex is meant for you to enjoy, Fiona. You would enjoy the act of sex. It would be so good to have sex, wouldn’t it? To come, to reach orgasm over and over again, anytime you wanted. That would be nice, that would be good.”

Fiona was breathing very deeply. “Yes. I want to have sex.”

“But you may enjoy sex only when given permission to enjoy it,” Ms Carver said firmly. “You are a slave, Fiona. You are a St. Incundita girl.”

“Can’t—play with Cindy?” Fiona wheedled, like a six-year-old.

“You are a freshman, Fiona. Seniors freely choose their partners for practice and stimulation. Freshmen must do as they’re told. You must do only what you’re told to do this year. Only what you are told to do, understand? If you’re very good, I may eventually allow you to play with Cindy, but not yet. Is that clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Fiona said contritely.

After a brief pause, Alexandria asked softly, “Fiona, have you noticed changes in yourself?”

“Mm. I think my. . . breasts are growing.” She had a fit of the giggles. “My boobies are getting big! I’m getting tits! Titties!”

“Open your blouse. No, remove it.”

Funny little Fiona puppet way down there below her taking its clothes off! Fiona had to giggle. Look, those two boobies, like round eyes with pink irises staring up at her, up here on the floaty ceiling.

“Very nice,” Alexandria Carver said. “Your bust is developing well, Fiona. That is normal. All St. Incundita girls develop attractive bosoms, Fiona. Do you like yours?”

Fiona pouted, her lower lip protruding. “Wish they were bigger and rounder like Cindy’s.”

“They will be. Do they feel nice when you rub them?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Show me.”

So Fiona ran her palms over her breasts, feeling the stir and twitch of her excited nipples. Lately they stood up more when she felt sexy, poked out like soft little pink bullets of crinkled flesh, oh, and they were getting to be so sensitive, the aureoles swelling, puffing. Fiona’s breath came harsh in her throat as she caressed and tweaked and pinched. Alexandria was standing right beside her. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, you enjoy that, don’t you?”

“W-wanna come,” groaned Fiona.

Alexandria was sitting on the arm of the chair. “Lie back, Fiona. Fiona, you are a St. Incundita girl. You have permission to come. I’ll help.”

Fiona quivered. Alexandria slipped her hand beneath the waistband of her skirt, beneath, oh God, beneath her panties, oh, there were her fingers, and she knew yes just how to touch, how to caress—Fiona felt her hips pump greedily. “P-Put them in me.”

“No,” Alexandria said firmly. “You are a virgin, and it’s not time yet. But enjoy this. Feel this.” Her soft fingertips teased Fiona’s clit, and it felt as if a fire were burning inside her, and suddenly, with a sharp cry, Fiona came, a shudder, jerks, spasms of relief and release, one after another, so good, so good.

“There,” Alexandria said, smiling, removing her hand. “Did that feel good?”

“Oh, yes! Oh, thank you!”

“If you behave yourself, Fiona, if you do as you are told, I will give you permission to masturbate every night. You can come as many times as you wish, and it will be good. It isn’t dirty. It’s good to be sexy. It’s good to come. But you will save yourself. You will not put your fingers inside your vagina, or a dildo or anything else. The time will come. You will feel better now. When you wake up, you won’t remember any of this in detail, but you will feel happier, and you will be able to masturbate every night when you are in bed. It will not bother you. You will feel no guilt at all, only happiness. You will feel sexier and sexier, and your breasts will grow, and you will be a good St. Incundita girl. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” breathed Fiona, feeling incredibly happy.

“Good.” Alexandria gave a big smile. Then, deliberately, slowly, with an intimate, knowing smile, she took the two sticky, glistening fingers she had used to bring Fiona to orgasm, put them in her mouth, and sucked them.

9

As the week wore on, Fiona had to admit she felt better. She had vague memories of visiting Ms Carver—Alexandria—on Monday and then again on Wednesday: They. . . talked, right? Yes, they . . . they talked about Fiona’s hang-ups and fears, and. . . and she felt better. Sometimes at night, trying to be very quiet about it, she. . . she touched herself now, understanding that it was just natural, that it was a way of releasing her anxieties and tensions. It was definitely nice. Very, very nice. And when the orgasm came, like a rolling wave, she breathed sharply and felt it lift her and lift her, and oh, yes, that was so good.

Halloween fell on Friday that year, and lots of the freshmen were going to the big Halloween party at the Student Center that evening. They would play games, and there would be a costume contest, and all sorts of goodies. Fiona felt more and more that she would not go herself. She hadn’t had time to work up a costume, for one thing, and for another. . . well, the real, the honest, reason was that she had begun to fantasize about masturbating while watching that sexy DVD. She could hardly do that in front of Cindy. Of course, Cin wouldn’t have second thoughts about doing it in front of her, but Fiona had to admit she wasn’t . . . wasn’t mature enough yet to make such a lascivious display. She still had a lot of inhibitions, though Alexandria was helping her see how childish and laughable they were.

Cindy and most of the other girls from the dorm were planning to go to the Halloween party, though, and Fiona helped her roommate put together a witch costume. They started with a severe white blouse and a long black skirt. Cindy would wear her town shoes, the four-inch heels, because they were black and made her taller. They scrounged up some thin black material, very silky but see-through, from the theater department and fashioned that into a billowing cape. The pointy hat was the biggest problem, but Fiona borrowed some stiff black paper from the art department and they cut, taped, and glued until Cindy had a tall, crinkled black witch’s hat that just fit over the stringy gray wig she and Fiona had fashioned out of yarn. “Let’s see how you look,” Fiona said, holding her digital camera.

“I’ll get you and your little dog too!” snarled Cindy, striking a hooked-hands pose. It made Fiona laugh, because there was no way her cute roommate could possibly look like an evil witch.

Fiona chuckled at Cindy’s goofy expression and took a photo. “Hang on!” she said, running out into the hall. Every floor of the dorm had its own small kitchen, and every kitchen had a little cleaning-supplies cabinet. From theirs Fiona took a ratty old broom. She ran back to the room and handed it to Cindy. “Here you go!”

“Perfect!” Cindy held the broom as if she were about to climb aboard and zoom off into the air, and Fiona snapped another photo.

Cindy hiked up her skirt and straddled the broom. With a lascivious wink, she began to stroke the handle, which stuck out like a rigid penis. “Hey, this is great.” She began to thrust her pelvis forward and back, and Fiona realized her pussy was riding the shaft of the broomstick. “I see why witches like these things.”

“Better hope you don’t get a splinter!” Fiona snapped another photo, and Cindy tossed the broom aside to come and see the display on the back of the digital camera. “Cool! Looks like a great big dick! God, I think I’ll go into town again tomorrow and fuck my porn-store boyfriend again.”

“Cin!” But they both dissolved into helpless laughter.

It was a gloomy Halloween day, chilly and overcast with gray, slow-drifting clouds. By late afternoon a dank fog had formed, making halos around the campus lights, coming on early in the unnatural dusk. Fiona kept busy taking photos. Trudy Walters had put together a crazy clown costume, red and yellow pajama top and bottom, big pink bunny slippers, and a white-painted face with arched, surprised eyebrows, a red nose, and a painted-on red grin. Her roommate June Neal, a platinum blonde, was going as a rock star. She wore a tight, tight red dress with a neckline that plunged down to her navel, and lots of phony bling. Fiona kept darting surreptitious glances at the cleavage June was showing. She had a spectacular bust, and the dress left little to the imagination. God, Fiona thought, her tits were so damn perky, but they were huge. Fiona had never seen her naked and started to wonder what her nipples looked like. Were they as big as—“Hmm?” June had said something, but Fiona hadn’t caught it.

“I said, you’re not coming?” June asked in a disappointed tone as Fiona took a group shot of her together with Cindy and Trudy.

“Think I’ll pass,” Fiona said. “Smile! Got it. No, really, I have junk to do, and anyway I’m not so great at parties. You guys have a great time, though.”

It was quite dark outside by six, and the three girls set out for the party. Left to her own devices, Fiona wandered down to the kitchen and made herself a BLT sandwich and heated some condensed soup for her dinner. The fridge held a big five-gallon container of the protein drink—mandatory with lunch and dinner—and Fiona automatically got herself a glass of the vaguely vanilla-flavored stuff. She ate at the kitchen table, washed and put away her dishes and utensils, and headed back to her room. The dorm was deserted. Fiona felt a kind of naughty warm glow thinking about watching the best parts of the DVD again while rubbing herself down there. No one would ever know.

But when she entered her room, she saw the ratty old broom leaning against the foot of Cindy’s bed. She must have forgotten it. Fiona checked her watch: 6:40. The costume contest was scheduled for seven or eight, she thought. Well, she could run the broom over and still get back for some private time. Fiona grabbed her jacket, shrugged it on, and headed out.

The fog had thickened amazingly. Fiona could see only about twenty feet. The sodium campus lights made the fog seem more opaque, a yellow roil. “Damn,” Fiona muttered.

Directions seemed confused in the fog, and somehow she completely missed the front of the Student Center. A building loomed up before her. Fiona thought at first it must be the library, just past the Student Center, but realized it was the Administration Building. Somehow she had wandered onto the wrong sidewalk and had passed right by the Student Center. She backtracked and came to the rear door of the Student Center. It wasn’t locked.

But since the building had been constructed on two levels, she was a floor above where the party was going on. This was the floor that Alexandria’s office was on. Well, there was a gallery running around the rec room, and stairs leading down from there. No problem. Fiona could already hear the sounds of the party.

Or. . . what in the world were they doing? Playing a game? Fiona heard a lot of moans and some sharp yips. It sounded almost like the sound track for that naughty DVD.

At the end of the hall, Fiona stepped out onto the gallery and looked down. Her jaw dropped.

Nearly all of the 125 freshmen girls filled the rec room below her. The floor had been cleared out, as though for a dance, and gymnasium mats had been laid down.

And all the girls were nude.

Along the far wall, on the soft, cushioned sofa that ran the whole length of that side of the room, ten naked older women sat, sprawled rather. Ms Jorgen, the P.E. instructor, had slid forward on the cushions, her legs spread wide, and kneeling on the floor before her, licking her slit with an air of dedication and worship, was the dark form of Shanese Wilson, Fiona’s swimming partner. Dr. Tolson, the math instructor, was cuddling with the clown-faced Trudy, their busy fingers exploring each other’s pussies. Trudy’s white-faced makeup was all smeared, and Dr. Tolson had big white and crimson streaks across her perky, full breasts and belly. The other teachers were. . . making love. . . with other freshmen students, and the students who were not the object of their attention were rolling on the floor, mouths to pussies, mouths to asses, fingers rubbing, some of them clutching dildos, others . . . God, there was Cindy! Others wearing bizarre strapped-on fake penises, fucking their partners as if they were a boy-girl pair! There was a. . . a sandwich of three girls, writhing, pressing, mouths and pussies moving, meeting, parting. Sounds of sucking, wet smacks, groans, squeals of pleasure, and a musky, heavy scent rolled up from the floor below.

A woman in a cat mask was . . . wading through the naked flesh, stepping carefully around the bodies. She, too, was nude. Her body had been oiled and it gleamed in the light. She moved with the grace of a cat. She had magnificent breasts, high and round and firm, with coral-colored nipples stiffly erect. Suddenly she stopped and said, “You!”

Fiona leaned on the rail and sobbed, recognizing the voice. It was Alexandria, the cat was. . . was her friend. Alexandria had stopped before a tangle of bodies and was pointing at someone. Simone Ranwick stood up. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Turn. Bend over!”

“Oh, yes!” Simone sounded joyful. She turned her back on the counselor, spread her legs wide, and bent over to grab her own ankles. Alexandria produced a huge black dildo, licked it with her tongue, then bent forward and. . . and let a long drool of saliva drip from her mouth onto Simone’s lasciviously exposed pussy, and then she . . . she forced the black dildo into the girl’s pink slit and started to, to fuck her with it, churning, making a lewd, terrible, wonderful sound, and Simone cried out, and Alexandria said caressingly, “Simone, you are a St. Incundita girl.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Simone said. “Mm, thank you—ahh! Mistress. Ooh, fuck me harder! Deeper! Faster!”

Fiona backed away, leaving the broom leaning against the rail. She had to get out of here, she had to get away.

She ran down the darkened hallway, past the counselor’s office, out into the fog and the night. This, this was—depraved! The women teachers were all perverts, they were all—and the girls, her friends, were under some kind of terrible spell, letting the teachers use them.

Them. Use them. The shock of what she had seen began to resonate. Flashes of memory: Alexandria’s fingers, her tongue—oh, God, no! Their sessions in her office—

Fiona ran through the fog, blindly. She passed the looming darkness of the dorm, ran on, ran down the long, curving drive past the pond, the one that led to the highway that led to town.

She blundered off the pavement, onto the grass, and within seconds she was lost in darkness. She had to slow, stumbling, slipping on the wet lawn. She groped, her hands feeling the damp air before her, until her fingers clutched something hard and cold—the chain-link fence that surrounded the campus.

Oh, God! The fence. The electric gate was guarded by an old man at night, an old guy who sat in a little hut and opened or closed the gate as cars came and went. How tall was the fence? Fiona couldn’t remember. She’d only seen it the day her father and stepmother had dropped her off here at—at this madhouse, this, this orgy.

She didn’t think she could climb over. Clutching the mesh, she hung there in the darkness, sobs ripping her throat. They were doing things to the girls, using them. Turning her friends into horrible whorish sluts! Good God, the protein drink was making their, their breasts grow bigger. The tight rubber gym clothes were shaping their bodies and getting them used to a bawdy public display of, of, breasts, tits, pussy, ass, oh, God, they were so pretty, so sexy. And Alexandria’s counseling, that was some kind of conditioning, changing the way the girls felt, changing the way they thought, the way they acted.

Fiona’s heart hammered in her throat. She turned to look to her left and saw only darkness. To her right, and it was a little lighter, where a feeble glow fought against the thick fog somewhere not too far away. She inched in that direction.

It was the guard’s little hut. He was inside, watching TV. She could barely make out his dark silhouette.

How could she get him to open the gate?

Fiona shrank back into the darkness. Hm. It was Halloween night. She had heard tales of panty raids before, of town guys who tried to sneak over the fence. Nobody much believed the stories, but everyone had heard them. Maybe if she. . . hm.

A few yards back she had passed a tree growing close to the fence. She found it again, a gnarled tree, maybe an oak, with huge old limbs that twisted and drooped out over the fence, toward the highway. Maybe she could climb it and drop over.

But there was no way. She could just dimly glimpse the hanging branch on the far side of the fence. If it had been on this side, she might have managed. But it had to be on the other side, the wrong side of the fence, and Fiona could tell that here, within the fence, all the branches had been trimmed. The rough trunk offered no foothold, no handhold.

Still. . . Fiona flailed around on the ground and eventually found a fallen branch seven or eight feet long. She picked it up, finding it surprisingly light. Deadwood, she guessed. She used the branch to slap across the top of the fence at the overhanging limb and finally connected. The branch caught, and she tugged as hard as she could. The sagging limb rustled in the night, creaking and rattling. She tugged harder, desperately, making more noise.

Off to her right, she heard an old man’s irritable voice: “Who’s out there?”

Fiona dropped the branch and grabbed the mesh of the fence. She rattled it, a clanging sound in the night. She heard the whine of an electric motor off to her right. Yes! The guard was going to go out and investigate! If only—she ducked away from the fence and ran as quietly as she could back to the guard hut.

There he was, visible only because he held a flashlight, trudging off toward the tree. She heard him yell querulously, “I see you boys! You get the hell out of here, now! I’m warning you!”

The gate stood open. In a second she had flashed through; in another she was pounding down the shoulder of the highway, into the concealing fog, away from St. Incundita, away from the nightmare.

The town of Laurence was small but upscale. A mile or more from the college, a couple in a Volvo had caught sight of Fiona frantically waving them down from beside the road and had stopped to pick her up. “I have to get to town,” she had begged. “Please!”

They had hastily dropped her off in front of the police station, then, not wanting to get involved, had driven off into the fog. Sobbing from fear and anxiety, Fiona went up the concrete steps, pushed open the glass door, and stepped inside.

Fluorescent light pained her eyes. Two uniformed cops ahead, one sitting at a desk, the other perched on the corner of the desk, laughing at something the first one had said. They both turned as she came in, two youngish guys, their expressions flat, giving no hint of feeling. “Help you, Miss?” the one at the desk asked.

Fiona tried to control the trembling of her voice: “I need to call my Daddy,” she said. “I’m in trouble.”

The cop at the desk, young, maybe twenty-five, had a red Irish face and a lumpy potato-like nose. His green eyes swept over her and he turned to the other one. “Jim, run get a matron.”

“’Kay.” The other cop, a little older, paunchier, hopped off the desk and vanished through a doorway.

“Sit down, Miss,” the remaining cop said. “I’m Officer Cullen. What’s your name?”

“Fiona Sullivan,” she said, gratefully sinking onto a straight chair. “I’m from Florida, and I have to get in touch with my dad. They, they don’t let us have cell phones or—”

“We’ll take care of you,” Cullen said. “You look kind of damp.”

“I ran away,” she said, automatically patting her hair, trying to smooth down her blouse. She had lost her high-heeled shoes and was barefoot, her feet muddy and scratched from her trek along the highway shoulder.

An elderly woman, seventy if she was a day, came in. “What’s the trouble?” she asked.

Cullen said, “Sarah, this young lady needs some help. I think you ought to talk to her.”

The woman looked anything but grandmotherly—hatchet face, prominent nose, a mess of untidy white hair piled on her head. She wore a navy-blue or black dress, hard to tell in that light, and her expression was neutral. “Certainly. Come with me, please.”

“I need a phone,” Fiona said, pushing herself up out of the chair. She felt so spent, so weary.

“I’m Mrs. Dale,” the old woman said. “I’m a matron here. This will do.” She ushered Fiona into a small room with a table and three chairs. “Sit down, dear. What’s your name?”

Fiona told her and again asked, “Could I please use a phone?”

“What happened?” Mrs. Dale asked. “You look exhausted.”

Fiona dropped her gaze. In her lap, her hands wrestled with each other. When had she broken three nails? She couldn’t remember. “I ran away from St. Incundita’s College for Women,” she said. “They’re doing terrible things to the students there. I know it sounds crazy, but—please let me call my Daddy. I want him to come and get me.”

“Terrible things?” the old woman asked, sounding puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Fiona said. “Just let me call. Please let me call!”

“Calm yourself,” the old woman said. “You’re safe now. This is a police station. We won’t let anything hurt you.”

“I—I’m sorry. I—please, please. . . .” Fiona broke down into racking sobs.

“Give me your father’s phone number,” Mrs. Dale said. She produced a small pad and a ballpoint.

“F-four oh seven . . .” Fiona began, and she gasped out the rest of the number. “If you c-call him, I w-want to talk to him. I w-want him t-to come and g-get me. . . . ”

Mrs. Dale crossed the room to a water cooler and filled a small conical paper cup. “Here, dear. I’ll have someone call. I’ll be right back. Calm down.”

Fiona gulped the water. She was shaking, her head filled with flashes of naked pink flesh, of piles of girls, wanton and lewd. Oh, God, she could remember the smell, the tangy, musky, delicious smell of pussy. She shivered. She had wanted—she had wanted to go down the stair and join them. She had wanted to strip, to offer her body to, to all of the others, to take and be taken, to kiss nipples and lick clits and assholes, to take the dildos in her own body, mouth and pussy and ass—she shook uncontrollably.

Seconds crept by, and Fiona felt her eyelids growing heavy. Her head felt wrong, wobbly on her neck. She stirred and yawned and struggled to stay awake, but couldn’t. She leaned forward, rested her arms on the table, her head on her arms. Somehow she slipped into sleep.

Voices, the murmur of voices in the darkness. Fiona opened her eyes and stared up at a cratered surface, which slowly became the acoustic tile of a ceiling. “Where am I?” Her throat felt dry, and the words came out in a rusty croak.

A sharp female voice said, “Fiona, you are a St. Incundita girl.”

She felt a lurch of nausea. That was—was Alexandria’s voice—

Fiona’s head spun with dizziness. What had—had put her out? She had an astringent taste in her mouth. . . the cup of water! The old woman must have put. . . put something in the water. . . Fiona tried to sit up and found she couldn’t. She was strapped to a bed, a—hospital bed? It had rails, and heavy leather straps immobilized her arms and legs. “What, what have you done to me?”

“Little girl is awake,” a man said.

Oh, God. Officer Cullen stood at the foot of the bed. His big curved dick was sticking out of his uniform fly. On the floor before him, naked, knelt Alexandria Carver. She had one hand up, was casually, almost absently stroking his erect swollen member.

Tilting her head to admire the man’s pulsating cock, Alexandria cooed, “Don’t worry about her. You did your part in bringing her back. I’ll take care of her from now on. Fiona,” she said very firmly, turning to direct her pale gaze at Fiona’s face. “You are a St. Incundita girl. You will sleep now. Fiona, you are a St. Incundita girl. You must obey me. You are still terribly, terribly sleepy. Sleep now.”

And without even waiting to see the effect of her words, Alexandria turned to engulf the man’s cock with her mouth, her head bobbing, her red lips clamping the shaft, her cheeks bulging. With one of his big hands cradling Alexandria’s head, ruffling her short, spiked, coppery red hair, Cullen leered at Fiona, his hips pumping as he fucked the counselor’s mouth. Fiona tried to fight the restraining straps, tried to scream, but her eyes were closing again, she couldn’t resist, yes, she was so sleepy, God what had they done to her—

What were they planning to do to her?

Despite Fiona’s panic, her eyelids fluttered and closed, and helplessly she sank into unconsciousness.