The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

RADIO STATION

Jeremiah, in full “cool DJ voice” mode, speaks out to his radio audience, “We’re three songs into our all-request hour and I’m sad to say I can’t give you a play-by-play of what Juliette just said and did for me off-the-air without fear of losing my job for violating a dozen FCC rules. I’m still here. I’m going hard — a lot harder than a couple minutes ago — and I’m ready. So, to my listening audience… what’s your name and what’s your request?”

Grayson holds up a piece of paper that reads: Check station’s Twitter

“I just got a tweet from… Um… I don’t know how to pronounce this, so I’m just going to play Pimpin’ Ain’t Easy for someone out in the Twitterverse with an odd combination of letters and numbers for their name. So here’s your song, giv-itz… Nope, not going to be able pronounce that.”

AARON MARS

Aaron Mars decides to tune in to Jeremiah’s show through his radio app when out for his early-evening jog. The music tends to be good and Jeremiah is, in Aaron’s opinion, hilarious. A bit buffoonish, and sometimes a little too misogynistic towards female callers, but entertaining nonetheless. The jog itself will be a nice chance to get some fresh air and get out of his “office” — the corner of his house where he does all his freelance design work. Actual sunlight (and not the artificial light he gets off of his computer screen) should help him to not feel as cooped in as he could. Besides, Debbie’s been hinting that he looks a bit pudgy and when your wife uses terms like “pudgy,” you need to double down on your workouts.

The moment he hits the sidewalk, clad in his barely-used trainers, gym shorts, and a worn down t-shirt with his university’s logo, he stretches a bit, then pulls up and launches the app —

Double A doesn’t run unless a cop is after him or a ho is trying to beat feet with his cash.

No. At nearly all times and at this very moment, Double A struts.

His surroundings look a bit too suburban for this particular gentleman of the city. He’s here to scope out the local talent, hoping to lure a cheerleader or a bored housewife into his stable. The streets are empty and a bit too bright for his liking. Sunlight bounces hard off his chains. He takes his long coat off, leaving just the wife-beater up top. He always liked that name for the shirt. Wife-beater. Right there in the name it says bitches have to stay in line. The back of his hand hasn’t slapped a face today. He can’t let that stand. He knows he can’t ever appear soft. Dominance is the name of the game and the hustle is real.

He’s walking for almost an hour when an SUV pulls up alongside him. The passenger side window rolls down and a woman asks, “You get lost?”

Double A turns to look at her and the blonde then adds, “And what are you wearing?”

His tone is harsh, cutting. “Clothes, woman. What they look like to you?”

His mind starts calculating — Is this bitch worth his time? Could she make him any money working a corner?

He leans down to get his arms and head in the window. He licks his lips as he sizes her up. She could use more makeup, a better hair style, and a hella lot less clothes, but she’s got a nice, natural-looking rack under her t-shirt. Since she’s sitting, he can’t be sure if her ass is all that, but on initial view, she’s got enough to work with.

“You want a job?” He asks.

“I have a job, Aaron. So do you. I was worried you passed out or something from the heat.”

“Don’t call me Aaron like you know me, ho. On the streets, I’m Double A. And this here’s the streets. My streets. The only heat you need worry about is what I pack.”

“Is this getup all because I called you pudgy, because I —”

He cuts her off, threatening. “Stop that noise, cunt, before I put a smack down on you.”

Her face goes red with anger and her body shakes as she says emphatically, “Do not ever talk to me that —“

Double A reaches across the car to bust the woman across the face. She pulls back, screaming, from the vicious and out-of-nowhere, out-of-character attack. He lunges again and Debbie puts her foot down on the gas pedal, not knowing what’s going on with her husband and, at that moment, not caring either. She was not going to let him touch her like that… or ever again.

Double A retreats from the car just in time to not be dragged alongside it. If he were packing, he would’ve sent a couple shots into the back windshield to let her know he’s not one to trifle.

Crazy bitch. Too much talk and not enough walk in that one. That’s what I get for trolling suburbia — silly-ass soccer moms. There’s no action here. Time to get back to where it all goes down.

Double A doesn’t stop walking until he reaches the dirtiest, nastiest section of downtown and that’s where his work begins —

He’s got bitches to recruit.

He’s got cheddar to make.

He’s got streets to rule.

RADIO STATION

“Pimpin’ may not be easy, but it sure does look like fun! I wonder if you get a discount… Anyway, caller, you’re on the air with DJ Jeremiah.”

The voice on the line speaks, “First time listener, but my name’s Barbara and it’s my bachelorette party!!!” A bunch of women scream and whoop it up in the background before Barbara continues, “Can you play Barbie Girl for me and all my girls to set us in a partying mood?”

MARTHA WILLIS

The office was just too much stress today. Martha Willis had a donut on the way in and she’s stopping by that shop again on the way home. Martha will take any excuse for a donut run. Of course, that’s the only running that Martha can do with the shape she’s in. Sitting on her ass all day doesn’t help matters, but as a secretary, that’s what the job entails. She’s never really cared for answering the phones of a white boy half her age, but the checks cash and the health insurance isn’t bad either.

After she places her order for another dozen assorted at the Donut Shack drive-thru window, she turns her radio on —

Ugh. What am I doing at a donut drive-thru? I bet they don’t even have almond milk here.

When the car in front of her pulls out, and Martie rolls up to the window, the teller Julia double takes at the woman who looks completely out of place driving the beat up car… and ordering a dozen donuts for that matter. The woman certainly doesn’t match the voice she heard ordering through the speaker box and the word that floats to the front of Julia’s mind to describe the driver is “fake.” There’s no way anyone could naturally have those bee-stung lips and such a huge chest tapering into a barely there waist. Definitely not a customer of the Donut Shack.

Not paid to judge, but rather to sell donuts, Julia says, “That’ll be thirteen eighty-eight for your dozen.”

Martie looks up into the drive-thru window, disgusted. “Dozen? As in donuts? As if. Maybe you stuff your body with sugars and preservatives and gluten, but I most definitely won’t.”

Martie doesn’t bother looking into her rear view mirror as she pulls out of the drive-thru and completely misses Julia flipping her off.

Just the thought of a donut has Martie finding her way to the nearest yoga studio so that she can work off whatever calories the brief waft of bread and glaze added to her body. She’d hate to show up to work and be seen as“fat.” She buys a workout outfit at the front counter and she pops out of the changing room in skin-tight yoga pants that put her lower lips on full display and an impossibly-overtaxed sports bra with nipples protrudingly also in view. At first sight, she earns the full ire of every other female student. She’s used to their jealousy. It comes with the territory of always looking totally awesome. Boys never judge her. That’s why she prefers them.

After a long steamy post-workout shower, and a good hour of primping and makeup in the locker room mirror, Martie is ready to go to work.

Jake at the door ushers her inside and lets Tim in the booth know that she’s ready. She drops her stuff off backstage and pulls herself into her costume.

Tim speaks into the microphone. “Next on the Player’s stage, gentleman, put your hands together for our beautiful blonde bombshell, Barbie!”

Hearing her stage name and taking the cue, Martie sashays onto the stage in her favorite six-inch platform plastic heels, a pink pleather corset, and lacy pink boyshort panties. There’s something about the pink and the plastic that just feels like home to her. She loves that every night at Player’s is like a party in her honor. She’s committed to dancing there until she meets her dream guy and he sweeps her off to her dream home. Until then, she’ll love every guy one song at a time.

RADIO STATION

“We’re back. You’ve got your radio tuned into Jeremiah. What’s your listening pleasure?”

“Yo yo yo. DJ J! Can you play Ballad of Chasey Lain for my girlfriend Tonya here who never seems to want to give it up to your boy, Derek? Tonya say hi.”

“…no…” chimes in a very reluctant female voice.

“I don’t know if that song’s radio safe… Oh, it must be, my producer Grayson’s giving me a thumb’s up. Here comes some Ballad for you, Derek and Tonya. Hope things work out between you.”

CONSTANCE WALKER

Constance Walker could see the soccer field from her minivan driver’s seat, even without her glasses. She likes to show up a little early so that Peter and his friends don’t have to wait for her to arrive. Even if practice goes late, there’s a good hour and a half once she gets home for the stay-at-home mom to get dinner ready for herself, Peter, Sally, and Pete Sr — the quartet that makes up the Walker family. Pete Sr. loves taking care of Constance and the twins (fraternal). Constance wonders what life will be like when Peter and Sally venture off to college next fall. She’s hoping it will rekindle the spark of romance between her and Pete Sr., having no one in the house to potentially disturb with any lovemaking. It’s been a good couple of months since they last had sex, and Constance worries that Pete Sr. just doesn’t see her that way anymore. She’s not the twenty-year-old he married anymore. She’s doubled in age since and reared two kids that are nearly the age she was when she and Pete Sr. started their life together. She was never a beauty queen, though she thinks Sally’s pretty enough for that path. Constance was funny and reliable. She sometimes wonders if Pete Sr. only married her because he knocked her up, but how many one night stands translate into two decades of marriage, even with kids involved?

Constance tries to shift her thoughts to more pleasant daydreams about the ingredients for tonight’s pasta puttanesca. Pete and his friends Billy, Mark, and Blair are nearly to the car before she realizes it. They’re probably the three most talented boys on the senior soccer team, in Constance’s opinion, but she may be biased. They’re a bit sweaty and dirty, but she may treat them to some drive-thru sundaes or sodas for their troubles.

“Hey mom, thanks as always for the ride,” Peter says, opening up the sliding door of the minivan.

Constance turns the key in the ignition, the car starts up, and a song from the radio washes over the driver and the four occupants.

Connie kills the engine. No sense wasting gas now that everybody’s here — Pistol Pete on the camera and her three Minivan Mom co-stars Bill, Mark, and Brock. Connie gets a kick out of the kink of dressing up like a suburban house-mom, even if the body the subdued clothes cover is anything but subdued. In fact, the closest thing Connie ever comes to being subdued is being under some dudes — today it’s three, but six was her biggest scene.

“Connie,” Pistol says from the front passenger’s seat, his camera always filming to get the “raw truth” as he says. “Have fun with the scene. I want to see some quality stroking and sucking before we get to the fucking and don’t leave anyone out — you’ve got two hands, a mouth, a pussy, and an asshole and there’s only three studs today, so you’ve got more than enough to keep everyone entertained the whole time.”

Connie likes working with Pistol. He’s a bit demanding, and more than a bit demeaning, but the shoots only last as long as necessary and the checks always cash.

She plays it cool, looking at the three sets of horny, hungry eyes staring at her from the side of the conversion van with the padded mattress floor in the back.

“Hey boys,” she says, licking her lips. “How was practice today?”

Their uniforms are spotless as if they’ve never been used, but no one cares about that kind of dirt in these films.

“Good, Mrs. W,” Brock says, climbing into the van. He looks a little too old to be playing high school soccer, especially with his built body and ample tattoos.

Bill adds, “And we each scored a goal today and you know what that means.”

Mark chimes in, “A promise is a promise. You’d hate for us to learn a bad lesson about honoring your word.”

“I said whoever scores a goal gets to fuck me however they want,” Connie proclaims, lasciviously. She takes that opportunity to hike up her sundress. “Why do you think I didn’t wear any panties today?”

She pulls the dress all the way off of her to reveal her naked body from tits to shaved twat. The only thing that doesn’t read true to her character is the tall high heels, but Connie doesn’t own any sensible footwear and this isn’t the kind of production that would supply any or care for that matter.

“Mrs. W, you’re the best booster our soccer team has.” Brock says, admiring his co-star’s body. He knows she plays the “soccer mom,” but her body is anything but. It’s tight in all the places that aren’t her huge, hanging tits. Brock gets a handful and squeezes, feeling the natural give.

“Ugh,” Connie says, “Grab my titties.”

Mark grabs the one that Brock hasn’t claimed even as Bill starts to shed his soccer uniform.

“I’m gonna tittyfuck you, Mrs. W.”

“I can’t wait to have that hard cock thrusting between my huge mounds.”

Brock and Bill move away to shed their clothes even as Mark moves forward. Connie presses her breasts together to create the perfect cavern for Mark’s thrusts. She pulls them apart briefly to spit in-between. He starts to thrust and she sees the other two are ready for her. “Hold my titties together so I can take care of your teammates.”

Mark grunts and nods, replacing her hands on the sides of her tits with his own.

Connie’s hands dart out and start to stroke, a rapidly hardening cock in each hand. She’s gentle and firm with her stroking. She doesn’t want to have anyone shooting off before they’re camera ready.

“Your tits are so soft, Mrs. W. They feel so good wrapped around my hard teen cock. I think I’m going to glaze them for you.”

“Glaze them, Mark. Glaze my tits with your cum.”

Mark pulls back to stroke and shoot rope after rope of cum onto her chest. His aim lands a wad on each of her hard, protruding nipples and the rest in the valley between.

“Flip over,” Brock says. “I’m going to pound you from behind while you suck of Bill.”

Brock and Bill high five as soon as Connie is in position between them.

Brock’s oversized cock fills her completely, mixing a bit of pain with her pleasure. She’s never fucked him on camera before and she’s sure going to be sore after. She balances on one hand so that she can suck and stroke Bill’s cock at the same time.

Mark sits off to the side and offers encouragement.

“Fuck that milf, silly. I want to hear your balls slapping against her chin and pussy.” Brock and Bill take the note and get a little rougher in their thrusts. “Just watching her titties jiggle has me ready to bust again.”

Bill offers a suggestion. “Let’s all nut on her face, so that she has to drive around our milky marked milf.

She feels empty when Brock pulls out, but she sits down on the padding as she’s surrounded by three hard cocks with hands rapidly pistoning up and down the shafts.

“Pucker up, Mrs. W.” Brock says, unleashing a flood across her face. Some lands in her mouth, but some gets in her nose and eyes. She hates when co-stars have bad aim.

Mark is much kinder, landing nearly all of his load on her outstretched tongue.

Bill gets half in her mouth, half dribbling down her chin.

She looks good and coated and she can tell that Pistol is zooming in so she milks the wanton whore look hard for the camera.

“That was great guys. Connie. Now, who wants to record while I drop a load on her?”

Suffice it to say, Pete Sr. does not have a meal waiting for him at home when he finishes his workday and he’s left to wonder where the rest of his household went off to. He’ll never know his wife and son were fatefully listening to a corrupted radio broadcast and that his daughter met an eerily similar destiny.

RADIO STATION

Jeremiah says, “Did I ever tell you about the time I made out with a porn star?”

Grayson comes in over the feed, “No.”

“Well —“

“No,” Grayson interrupts. “I wasn’t prompting you to tell the story. I was saying ‘no, don’t tell that on the air.’ Just take the next request.”

“Oof, someone’s got their panties in a bunch. Speaking of panties, at Kelly Kelly XO on the Twitters wants to hear Man! I Feel Like a Woman and I’m just the man to make that happen for her. Here’s a little Shania for your ear.”

ALEX JONES

Alex Jones slaps his secretary Stacey’s ass as he leaves for the day. “Thanks for the work, Stacey. And thanks for keeping that ass high and tight for me.”

He doesn’t see Stacey shudder and recoil because, to be honest, he never does. He barely pays attention to her when he isn’t pawing her. He thinks that since she works for him, she’s his to do with as he pleases. He’s the type of guy who thinks that the world is here for him and him alone. He wears the best tailored suits. He drives the fastest car. He eats the kind of meals that foodies dream of.

So, when he grips his Valentino Rockstud Camo Briefcase firmly in his right hand and reaches out to push Garage 2 with his left hand, he’s surprised by the song that plays over the elevator speakers, surrounding him completely when the door closes.

Alex’s dress slacks draw up his calves even as the elevator starts to descend, pulling the fine leather of his black dress shoes up in their retreat. The slacks are a skirt when they’re just above his mid-thigh and the boots stop just above the knee.

His white dress shirt takes on a more silky sheen even as his jacket fades into nothing. A black lacy bra appears underneath its sheer surface, but it currently doesn’t support anything. Matching lacy panties grip tightly around his manhood as he descends more floors.

The first physical change happens above his head. His well-groomed hair becomes shaggy at first, then long and luxurious. As the hair touches his face, it becomes more feminine, with a judicious amount of makeup applied.

The hair touches his chest and breasts blossom out to amply fill the bra lace bra, pushing up against the silky shirt with delicious tension.

His belly vacuums in even as his hips flare out. His shaft retracts in on itself, forming a womanly cavern with thick lips shrouding it.

Her legs, like her crotch, have been through laser hair removal and are forever soft and hairless. Her calves curve perfectly against the black leather of her high boots.

She pulls her Gucci Sylvie Crocodile Shoulder Bag tight against her shoulder as the elevator doors open on the Garage 2 floor.

Alex Jones believes she deserves the best in everything. With her looks, her willingness to do anything to get what she wants, and her ongoing objectification of men, she’s likely to have it all.

RADIO STATION

“Do you know when I feel like a woman?” Jeremiah looks to the window looking into the booth and Grayson’s waving him off. “We’ll save that for another time. Caller, what’s your name and what would you like to hear?”

A man with a southern drawl answers. “My name’s Vaughn Mason and I’d love for you to play some Save A Horse, Ride A Cowboy.”

“Then you’re in luck, Vaughn, because that’s what I’m about to do.”

HILLARY FINDLAY

Hillary Findlay hated visiting homes on this side of town. They tended to be… less cultured. She felt like she had to take an extra-long shower and double dry clean her clothes. Her friends, and even her coworkers hearing her displeasure, told her she could just dress down on these days, but that wasn’t in her nature. She always had to dress well. Dress for the job you want, her father instilled in her at a young age. She didn’t want to always be a representative of the court. She just saw this experience at so young an age as a good pathway to get into public office and then higher public office, until she was a Governor or a Senator, her ultimate destination. This was all just a series of bumps in the road along the way.

She straightens her skirt and rings the doorbell, repeatedly practicing the name on the court papers — Ms. Rebecca Duroway — to ensure she does her job to the best of her ability. The record says that Ms. Duroway is a sixty-year-old woman with dark grey hair. She looks friendly enough in the picture, but the records list her as a serial repeat offender as a shoplifter, with over a dozen counts against her.

The door opens and Hillary has only “Ms. Reb—“ out of her mouth before the song encases her in its melody.

Hill assumes the sweet young thing in front of her, sporting daisy duke shorts that match her own, must be her friend… and if not, she sure seems like she could be soon.

She chews on her gum for a hot second before speaking, which causes the young dirty blonde woman at the door to ask, “Whaddyawant?”

Hill spots the beer can in Becky’s hand and asks, “You got another one of them?”

“Shit,” Becky says, swinging the screen door open wider, “Come on in then.”

Hill follows Becky inside to a kitchen full of dirty dishes and a fridge comprised of beer and condiments. “Damn, girl, were you raised in a barn? I’m not aimin’ to cool off the world. Grab a beer and so’s I can close the door.”

Hill pops the top on the can and takes a much needed swig. The cool beer feels extra wonderful as it goes down her throat. She tilts her head back to down a lot more of it, dribbling a little down her front and into the cleavage set up by her tied-off flannel shirt. Her’s was red, but Becky’s was green. If Hill dyed her hair a little darker blonde, they might be able to pass as twins, at least in a darkened room full of drunken men.

She finishes the beer with a belch and laments, “Dayam. Wish I could get some good cowboy dick up in here.”

Becky smiles at her. “There’s a bar nearby. Cheap beers and easy people.”

Hill smiles widely back at her. “Cheap and easy? My kinda bar. Lesgo already.”

“You and me gonna be great friends,” Becky says. “Just make sure to share the cowboys with me.”

“I will,” Hill says, but adds, “unless they’re hung like a horse. Then, that cowboy’s all mine.”

RADIO STATION

“Hello Caller, what would you like to hear?”

“You know what I haven’t heard in a long time?”

“What?” Jeremiah asks.

“I Kissed A Girl.”

“Meet more girls then… but also, here’s your song!”

SYDNIE STEVENS

Sydnie Stevens didn’t know what to do. It seems clear to her the membership of Abstinence Club is very quickly dwindling down. She doesn’t like the prospect of being the only member of the club. Her presidency would not look good on college applications if the colleges decided to have any follow up whatsoever. She had to figure out why the numbers were failing.

Was it the siren call of sex?

She was losing a lot of Seniors. Did that just mean that a lot of Seniors were losing their cherries? Perhaps, if that’s the case, she should troll the underclassmen to supplement her enrollment.

What if she’s the reason?

She dreaded to think this thought, but she had to consider it nonetheless. It’s possible that there was something in her leadership that was off-putting. Is it possible that there’s another Abstinence Club, a stealth Abstinence Club, that exists with everybody but her?

She was raised to fear the worst case scenario — if she had sex once, she’d surely end up pregnant. And then she could kiss every one of her hopes, dreams, and ambitions goodbye because she’d have to double down and dedicate herself to being the best mother she could be. Sydnie doesn’t half-ass anything.

Frustrated, and in need of a quick mental break, Sydnie flips on the radio.

She’s struck by a thought that gets a very secure footing in her head — you can’t get pregnant from another girl.

She tries to shake free from this new tendril working its way through her cranium. She’s never thought about girls in that way before…

…but why not?

If she looks in the mirror and considers herself to be attractive, why couldn’t she admire those qualities in another woman?

So what I like about me is probably what I’d like about another woman, she thinks, and walks herself to a mirror in the otherwise abandoned classroom she’s holed up in.

I like my pixie cut hair, so I’d probably like a girl with a similarly low-maintenance hairstyle.

I don’t dress to impress, so I’d probably like a girl who focuses on function over form.

I wear just a dash of makeup, so I’d probably like a girl who treats her face comparably.

I’ve got a good body, with firm and proud breasts and a nice cushion-y ass.

Examining herself in the mirror, she realizes that assessing what she likes about herself and what she would like about another girl has made her horny — exceedingly horny. She adds—must find a girl turned on by other girls—to her growing list of qualifications.

Sydnie ventures out into the school hallway looking for such a girl.

She finds Kelly Clark in the hallway. The rumor mill around the school has always pegged her for a lesbian, even if no one has seen her with another girl or with another girl even. A pressing need propels Sydnie over to her.

“Hi,” Sydnie says, a bit tentative.

“Hi,” Kelly says back, plainly.

“So, uh, I was wondering,” Sydnie says vacillating between looking at Kelly’s pretty face and admiring her own shoes when courage fails her. “Do you think, maybe, you and I could, I don’t know, kiss?”

Kelly does not seem pleased with the prospect. “Who put you up to this?”

“No one.” Sydnie says. “No one, I swear.”

“I’ve dealt with four years of rumor and ridicule and I can’t wait to leave this place behind.”

Sydnie looks disappointed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just saw you and admired the way you look and your pretty face and your lovely mouth and I just really really wanted to kiss you.”

“Wait,” Kelly says, “so you’re serious?”

Sydnie nods, words failing her at this point.

Kelly scans the empty hallways for someone with a camera or a group of people that aren’t there. Satisfied, she grabs Sydnie’s hand and drags her to the nearest ladies room.

Kelly pushes Sydnie against the wall and does a check to make sure they’re alone. Confirmed, she returns to Sydnie and pushes her body against the girl’s, before meeting her mouth to Sydnie’s, tongues gently exploring.

A rush flows through Sydnie. Any doubts she may have had are washed away by the simple exchange of saliva with Kelly Clark — a girl who an hour ago meant absolutely nothing to Sydnie, but now is the center of her universe.

Sydnie tentatively reaches up to fondle Kelly’s breasts and Kelly presses her hands down harder, more insistent, giving her a mashing grip, before taking her own hands and kneading Sydnie’s ass. The kissing gets deeper, more aggressive on both of their parts. They break apart when they hear the door swing open, darting past the newcomer and out into the hallway.

They catch sight of each other, breathless, and can’t help but laugh.

Desperate for more, Sydnie says, “Please tell me there’s someplace a little more private you can take me.”

“My parents don’t get home until seven at the earliest… I can take you multiple times before they roll in.”

Kelly grips Sydnie’s hand again and Sydnie would let Kelly lead her anywhere.

With all the thoughts of all the things she wants to do to and with Kelly, it would seem, to Sydnie, that Abstinence Club absolutely needs a new president. Their former president will be far too busy exploring carnal urges and sapphic delights.

RADIO STATION

“You know who’s kissed a ton of girls? This guy. You can’t see it, but I’ve got two thumbs up. Caller, what’s your poison?”

“Jeremiah, I’ve also kissed my share and you know what’s a good make out song? Born to be Wild.”

“Right on. That always gets my motor running. Let’s step up to some Steppenwolf.”

STEPH COLEMAN

Two girls rush by Steph Coleman as she walks into the second floor ladies room to splash some water on her face. She thinks she recognized one — Kelly Clark — from her third period English class. The other looked like a happier version of Sydnie Stevens. She’d never seen that girl smile like that though so it couldn’t be her. Steph is in the school well after the final bell because she had no desire to go home to what awaits her there — a drunk for a father and a mother that doesn’t give a damn. She’d be better raised on a steady diet of TV and movies. At least TV and movie provide hope… if not direction. She is either floundering or sinking, she’s just not sure which.

She hears some sound coming from one of the classrooms normally vacant at this point in the day and curiosity gets the best of her. She swings the door open and is immediately awash by some music.

It sets her ears tingling. Not the human ears on the side of her head, but rather the cat ears on top. It was nice to be alone in the hallways because she could remove her cap and let her cat ears feel the air. She untucks her tail from the back of her pants to set that free. Her heightened sense of smell tells her that someone — a girl — was getting very horny in here recently and the thought inspires some lower function in Steph — she needs to find a tom cat somewhere, nearby if possible, to fulfill her increasingly undeniable rutting needs.

If she got knocked up, she has no idea if she’d have a baby or a litter, but the wild part of her doesn’t care. The wild part just wants the action. Finding none in this empty room, or this empty building, she struts outside.

Once there, she’s sure she smells more than one set of pheromones at play in the direction of the soccer field. She breaks into full stride, the feral part inside of her taking over, one hundred percent ready to absolutely pounce on the first dick she sees.