The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

All good things come to an end. I am probably as aware of this as anyone else. I’ve lived with the concept long enough. There was a time when myself and the rest of the Pantheon were properly worshipped as gods. That time passed. All of this classroom fun must end and I must do my duty and get down to the business that drew me here in the first place. It’s been a good warmup/refresher of life on Earth, mainly humanity and all of its flaws and foibles. I can only hope this classroom will provide that last laugh my soul — if I even have a soul — craves.

I breathe in the air of the classroom as I enter. It’s a heady mix of freshman and desperation — two of my favorite smells.

I stride to the front of the room, a female professor is nearly ready to speak and I motion for her to join me at the side of the front. I examine her strings. Her name is Barbara Knight. She’s a dark redhead with green eyes.

“What class is this?” I ask in a conspiratorial whisper.

“Languages,” she says, a bit confused by my presence and the question.

“Like… any languages?” I ask, a bit confused by her answer.

“Who are you and how can I help you?”

“Babs. May I call you Babs?” I ask, plucking the string to make that her preferred name.

“Of course.”

“Your girlfriend Maggie has been arrested again.”

Just as she’s about to confusedly protest, I pull the appropriate strings to make her a lesbian with a girlfriend who has a propensity to misbehave. To keep her life interesting, the bad behavior is a big turn on for Babs. The severity of the crime is directly proportionate to the magnitude of the turn on.

“Shit,” she whispers frustrated, but rubs her legs together in a display of a different kind of frustration. “What now?”

“Shoplifting.” I say, pretending like it’s a big deal, but Babs is unimpressed.

“Oh.”

“But then she punched a cop.”

“Oh!” Babs moans out excitedly.

“I’m here to take over your class so that you can take care of… things.”

“Thank you,” she says, her face red and her pulse quickened. “Things will definitely need a lot of taking care of soon.”

“I understand.” I tell her.

And I do.

Babs Knight will live a very interesting life from here on out, much more interesting than her formerly dull, hetero single life. She’s going to rack up some serious legal bills as well as purchases from the local adult novelty shop. Any time the relationship appears to get stale, she’ll suggest some sort of crime to Maggie to reignite the spark. Babs will be quite the little enabler.

The door closes and I turn to the room.

“Languages. Am I right?”

I’m tired. I must be tired. I’m usually really good at the performance aspect but I look at the sea of about sixteen blank faces and I just want to fool around with their existence. I’ve still got my magical O voice employed, so I figure I might as speak for fifteen seconds to see which eight of the sixteen are most inclined to cum.

“Language is the way in which we convey messages, be that messages of love, of hate, or indifference. Some language, like body language, is nearly universal. Despite our differences as many people populating this world, it is the common need to be understood that separates us from lower life forms… such as people.”

Fifteen seconds of bullshit. Eight orgasming coeds — six dudes and two dudettes. Wet-crotched and embarrassed, they all scurry from the room and I only make a slight tweak to all of them before they’re out of sight — every time they hear the word “casserole,” they’ll spontaneously orgasm. Big. And loud. Should make family get-togethers and picnics all the more interesting.

I crack my knuckles, which I’m sure looks odd and a bit too masculine for my current pseudo-hottie form. I pull the thread of the room so all of the confusion and revulsion about the mass orgasm dissipates, giving me back their full and undivided attention. I’m ready to get down to some serious business with the remaining eight who may or may not wish they would have just cum along with the rest of them, depending on the shifting balance of my mood.

“Idioms. An interesting turn of phrase. Everyone who presents me with an idiom gets an A in this class.”

All eight hands go up. Apparently, they’re all either studious or lazy.

“Name first so I can properly adjust your grade and then your idiom.”

I call on a football player-looking guy in the back. Large, broad-shouldered, and not the kind of guy you’d set up with your sister.

“Frank Bishop. She’s got a Holler Tail.”

I’m unfamiliar with this particular phrase, but I’m inspired nonetheless.

I pull the strings until Frank is Fanny, a bit of a full role reversal leaving her as feminine as Frank was masculine. Muscles shift to a more soft and supple look. His chiseled-chin, square face becomes oval, with makeup giving enough more polish to pretty and delicate features. Additionally, I have endowed Fanny with a very special asset — anyone who sees her bare ass will have to ream it, no matter the place, time, or their relation to her. This will make showers with her fellow cheerleaders quite the event. Fanny will have a proclivity towards baring her behind as well, desperate for at least a daily reaming.

“Fanny gets a nice round A. Who’s next?”

A spritely girl in the front raises her hand urgently. Of the studious or lazy, this particular girl is easily separated into the studious category.

“Sally Vaughn… She’s a brick house.”

No longer svelte, Sally barely fits in her desk chair anymore. She’s thick from head to toe, overly ample in the breasts and ass, because I’m the Breaker that cares. To make sure her insides match her outside, she’s a bit thick in the head as well — no longer fitting in that “studious” category. Not to be unkind, whatever room she enters after this one, someone will develop an undeniable attraction to larger women that only Sally can fulfill. And when I use the term “undeniable,” I mean it. This will also make add some flavor to her family’s get-togethers. I like when a thread or theme presents itself. I chuckle and wonder how it will weave itself through the rest of the students, knowing full well I’ve invoked a bastardization, shortened form of my brother’s nomenclature. I mean, I used “theme” in my thoughts. I’m probably drawing a lot of his attention right now. I wave, as if he’s looking at me at the present moment then point to a now hard-to-miss Sally.

“Sally gets a whole lotta A. Who’s next?”

I next call on a raven-haired girl with clothes to match and a severe face.

“Lauren Pearson. Fit as a fiddle.”

I hate stereotyping. Not because of its accuracy or inaccuracy… it can just become too easy and I like a little sass in my sassafras. However, as much as the inbred white trailer trash may be a trope, it’s a trope that fits into my fun family gatherings, so Lauren (now Lori) gets a heavy dose of it. Her severe face melts into one that seems easily distracted with an in-baked stupidity that has no place in a college classroom. Her black ensemble is replaced by cut-off jean shorts so short that the pockets visibly hang below the denim. She wears a Budweiser tank top, which allows for a clear view of the top and sides of her breasts, and a reasonably, barely covered view of her nipples. Atop, her black hair goes bleach blonde. Inside, along with the doltishness, I crank up her volume, replacing a need to be right with a need to be loud. Also, what gets her race car engine going — what really lubes up her suspension — is her cousins. She’ll be more than kissing cousins… at the next family gathering. Inside, she’s excitedly counting the days until the next one, as best as she can.

“Lori gets her last and final A. Who’s next?”

I find the most hesitant, meekest hand in the room. It belongs to a mousey little number wearing her Goodwill best, weathered sundress. Makeup-less, with soft brown hair and no sense of style or panache, I hope against hope she’s got a good idiom.

I point to her and her voice is as soft-spoken as I would have guessed when she says, “Lila Robbins. Smart as a whip.”

Like a kid in a candy store, I lick my lips at the potential of Lila’s phrase. I stretch her out, taking a barely five foot girl and adding an imposing foot plus of height. I erase all meekness from her being, crafting a dominant, near sociopath self. I envelope her in latex, with six-inch heels to make her all the more formidable. Pure black hair pulls back into a power pony tail. Power is her new favorite word, followed closely by dominance. I put her best friend — her whip — into her hand. Holding her whip, she will always uncannily know who within her line of sight is most easily broken. And she will break them. And she will take so much pleasure in their servitude. Just looking around the room and sizing it up, she runs her whip over her crotch and nipples in pleasurable anticipation. I make everyone she’s related to a closeted submissive, all the way out to second cousins, because I enjoy interesting family shindigs.

“Lila gets a powerful A. Who’s next?”

I choose a pseudo-preppy guy from the second row. His blandness makes me want to vomit. “Edward Grant. Say less.”

There’s no way he could know my sheer hatred of people with two first names as their name. It further highlights his bland-itude. And where’s the fun in “say less,” I ask you? Edward, I guess, is going to forever lose the ability to speak. This has, at least momentarily, bumped me from my theme, so additionally this inability will cause him great and constant distress.

“Edward gets the silent A. Who’s next?”

I find an equally preppy girl sitting near Edward. I’m guessing they were previously a couple, but I find that communication is really at the heart of any good relationship so I’m going to assume their relationship is now DOA. In fact, I make sure that his newfound fright draws the attention of our resident disciplinarian Lila. I point to his former flame and she says, “Rose Riley. Same difference.”

I would be mad. I would punish her like her former boyfriend, but as much as I hate a two first names situation, I love an alliterative name that sounds like it comes from a comic book and find inspiration in that. I give Rose a foil — a twin… an evil twin… named Thorn. It’s clear to look at them that the base is the same, but with different choices taken. I bump up Rose’s qualities to make her a sweeter than sweet, girl next door with light blonde hair, blue eyes, and an overwhelmingly pleasant disposition. She’s the kind of girl you bring home to the family and is always well-received. Her “sister” on the other hand is the kind of girl you desperately want to fuck, but hope that the marks she leaves on your body — and you know she will leave marks on your body — are the kind that will eventually heal. Thorn’s hair is dyed dark purple to match her sneered lips. Her black mesh shirt clearly keeps her pierced nipples on display. Her black pants look shiny and painted on, making it hard to tell where they end and her boots begin. While Rose is a stay at home and read type, Thorn will always opt for a night on the town. On the rare occasion that she doesn’t find anyone — boy or girl — to her liking, she will come home to ravage Rose… making for interesting family engagements when the timing’s right. Each ravaging will give Rose the best orgasms of her life, but the encounter is probably the most vanilla that Thorn engages in as she doesn’t want to do any permanent damage to her “good” twin. Is it twincest or masturbation..? Same difference.

I spot the two remaining raised hands — a boy and a girl — and decide to deal with the boy first so that I can close out this class with the girl. The boy has sandy hair and looks like he’d be at home with a surfboard.

“Colin Shelton. Jump the shark.”

Because I’m a fan of classic television, and sometimes find myself with a lot of free time, I’m actually familiar with this particular phrase. However, it doesn’t quite fit in nicely with my theme. I instill within Colin a daredevil, thrill seeker streak. He will forever be in search of that next adrenaline junkie high, pushing his body to new limits, tempting fate at every turn. As a Fonz fan, though, I grant him an extra helping of luck. So long as he doesn’t do anything too impossible, he should come out of it relatively unscathed. On top of all of this, no jukebox will ever remain broken in his presence. In his down time, between death defying encounters and while he’s healing from his latest, I’ve given him a checklist — he now wants to get with every type of woman imaginable. He’s equipped with a rebel’s charm that will sway them all into a one-time naked encounter. Having never been with a “brick house” to date, I imagine Colin will have a word or two to share with Sally when the class ends and something more than a word to share shortly thereafter.

“Colin gets an A of every variety. Who’s last?”

My eyes lock on the last raised hand. If you could look up “stuck-up, judgmental, virgin” in the dictionary, a picture of this girl raising her hand would be there. She wears a turtleneck and a baggy sweater, even though that’s not totally weather appropriate attire, and a long, ankle-length skirt. She looks like she’s barely escaped a cult, but not one of the fun ones. I love a good cult, but bad cults get all of the press and ruin the term. Whatever it is that she says after her name, I guarantee you she’s not leaving this room looking and acting like that.

I point. She answers, “Athena Griffin. A ministering angel shall my sister be.”

I have to hand it to her. I didn’t think she’d have that kick ass of a name. I thought for sure she’d say her name was Chastity McVirginPants — met a girl with that name once… suffice it to say the name was entirely ironic after I was through with her. I pull the strings of her clothing and shred it off of her body, leaving her aware and absolutely terrified. Those clothes were an affront to all that is good in the world, especially so since they were apparently keeping some serious talent hidden. Athena has some serious body — grapefruit-sized tits, a big firm ass, meaty thighs. She’s probably a little too Botticelli for the modern world, but I think she’s swell. I craft a pornographic parody of a nun’s outfit around her — tight, black, and shiny — that leaves nothing to the imagination. Her ministry? The angelic relief of others. Wherever someone suffers from blue balls, she will be there. A sexless rut? She will lift you out of it. A desperate need to masturbate? Why use your hand when she’s ready and willing to lend her expert pair… and her mouth… and her pussy… and her ass? As she will be doing my work, I grant her perfect health for all of her days to go along with this quest to release anyone she encounters from sexual frustration. Every orgasm she frees from her flock, she will experience one of equal value, causing her to perfect her craft in short time. In that outfit, the only outfit she’ll ever wear, she’s going to encounter a lot of pent-up desires in need of the sweetest release… some of which will, of course, occur at the next family gathering.

“Athena gets every A she can get her hands on.”

My work here is done with a blessing in the form of Athena that will continually make the world a happier, well-fucked place. I take a bow. The students don’t seem to appreciate it, but it’s not for them anyway. I just happen to enjoy a bit of theatrics from time to time.

Crap. The things I would have done to a Theater class.

Oh well. There is actual Pantheon work to be done.

I have to be sharp for what’s to come and all work and no play makes for a dull Breaker. This little diversion helped me hone my craft, sharpen my skills, and properly return to the physical world after a prolonged absence.

My blessing to you is this — May good fortune keep you out of my path, should you have any desire to impede it.