The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

THE WEAVER

In the beginning, all power came from words.

Entire realities were created and shaped by words.

Stories were the ultimate power and the Weaver, being keeper of stories, was powerful indeed. Not a god, though that confusion would be understandable, but the first people still told stories as acts of fealty unto him.

Stories of the seasons, so that the seasons would be kind.

Stories of victories, so that their enemies would know defeat.

Stories of love (and lust), because people needed to celebrate their victories somehow.

As words became commonplace, because people started to toss them around without true meaning or intent, stories became common. In turn, the Weaver’s power waned, but never diminished entirely.

“What good are stories?” the Weaver pined, but with a twinkle in his eye and hint of smile on his ancient face.

He knew, one day, perhaps this day, this story would be read.

And on that day, perhaps today, through some small sliver of belief, a fraction of his power would return to him.

All stories start with “What if?” the Weaver’s most powerful tool.

What if, for instance, the Weaver crafted a website where unknowing, sometimes fortunate (sometimes less so) souls could download songs for free? Songs being stories, after all, just stories set to music, and therefore a part of his territory.

But these songs wouldn’t just be heard, ignored, and forgotten. These songs would write a story upon the listener, spilling a bit of chaos and wonder back into the world. A karmic comeuppance, if you will, levied on the listener for not paying the musician, a storyteller, their tithe. As keeper of stories, the Weaver had a soft spot in his heart for storytellers.

Chaos.

Comeuppance.

Karma.

The Weaver could already feel his power growing.

WILLIAM WILDER

Did I Google “greatest love songs?”

Yes.

Yes, I did.

I want the foundation to be sappy. Super sappy. After a solid month of flirting with Tiffany Taylor pre- and post- Psych 101 class, this mix of a dozen songs is designed to elevate the repartee and, in general, move things along. Or, at the very least, I hope it will.

The can’t miss tracks are, in order: Love Me Tender. Can’t Help Falling in Love. Endless Love. Whole Lotta Love. Can’t Get Enough of Your Love. How Deep is Your Love. Truly Madly Deeply. Crazy in Love. Crazy Little Thing Called Love. I Honestly Love You. Unchained Melody.

These were the ones I already had on my computer. Don’t judge. I have easily over 10,000 songs. And they’re not all cheese.

But these first eleven tracks act as a perfectly sappy saccharine journey to set up the “hidden” track—I’m a Slave 4 U. A little salt to make the sweet that much sweeter. Hopefully earning me a laugh at least. And, if I somehow misjudged our ongoing flirtatious banter, I can play it all off as a joke.

“What? You thought that I—Oh!”

Cue feigned “that’s so cute” laugh.

Escape possible horrible misunderstanding completely unharmed.

A bold gesture and a fool proof escape plan. Zero risk. Awesome potential for reward.

Of course, oddly enough, I don’t actually own I’m a Slave 4 U, because even my eclectic collection has its limits. I know if I legitimately buy it, it won’t be authorized to play on her computer. So my next Google is, “I’m a Slave 4 U free.”

Atop the search is a site I’ve never heard of—WeaverTunes. Instead of free is states that the songs are “100% freedom” which is odd, but the library of songs on the site is staggering, and they don’t ask for any personal or payment info, so I don’t pay it too much thought. Literally every song I can think to search for is on here. I don’t know how it hasn’t been shut down, but since I need to leave for class in the next ten minutes or so, I don’t debate it. I download this special twelfth and final track, put them all on a thumb drive with a “Property of William Wilder” label on it, pop it in my shirt pocket, and beat feet for Psych 101.

I land at a desk mere moments before Tiffany arrives, just like always. And she sits down next to me, just like always. Her honey vanilla scent—Shampoo? Body wash? I don’t know—brings a pleasant smile to my face. She greets my smile with one of her own. If I had to describe her in one word, it’d be “sweet.” Girl next door face, framed by dark brown, almost black hair. A delicate, slight build up top with some curves on the bottom. She has one of the loudest laughs I’ve ever heard. She’s maybe a shade too conservative for my liking, but she talks a good game, so maybe she just has an outward air of being conservative.

I extend the thumb drive to her.

“What’s this?” she asks.

“I made a little mix of songs for you.”

“But it isn’t even my birthday,” she says with a chuckle.

“When you’ve listened, everything will be crystal clear.”

“Fair enough,” she says and finds a safe zipper pocket for the drive.

Of course, throughout the class I go over and over in my head how my gesture will ultimately be received. Will she like it? Will she find it endearing? Will she find it a bit too stalker-y? Why did I have to put that Olivia Newton John track on there? I’m utterly useless at paying attention to anything in class as these questions pile up and bounce around in my brain.

The professor starts to wrap things up—I hope none of the material presented will be on the mid-term—and I feel a bead of sweat building on my forehead.

I start to mentally recite a mantra of “play it cool,” but it might be too late.

As the other students start to file out, I turn to Tiffany. “You think maybe I could borrow your notes sometime.”

“Were you worried about song selection or something?” she asks.

“Or something.”

She slides her finger around her tablet’s screen and with a flourish says, “Sent.”

“Oh? Thanks!”

“Hopefully you’re the only William Wilder at the school or someone’s going to be confused.”

“Nope. It’s just me. I’m in the directory too if, you know, you feel like you want to talk after, you know, you listen to the songs.”

“Do they require running commentary?”

“Pretty sure that’s a no.” I say.

“Thank you for the songs, then.” She reaches over and touches my arm gently. “We’ll talk.”

And with that, she walks away. A gentle breeze of honey vanilla left in her wake.

I involuntarily check out her ass as she walks up the steps.

Lovely and pear-shaped.

I’m smitten.

I’m in deep smit.

I hope I’m right and these songs change everything between us.

TIFFANY TAYLOR

What do I like most about college? My parents would want me to say my education, but that probably only cracks the top five, not the number one spot. The number one thing I like most about college is getting the chance to explore who I am. No baggage. I never weave “High School Valedictorian” into conversation so people don’t think I’m merely a “brain.” I haven’t even told my roommate May Sanders I went stag to my senior prom because as much as I think she likes me, I think she’d label me “future cat lady” and be done with it. None of that matters. It’s college and I get to start over. I can be cool if I want to. Cool Tiffany. That’s what everyone will call me.

The number two thing I like? Flirting with William Wilder in Psych class. Sure, he’s, in the vernacular of Douglas Adams, “mostly harmless,” but he’s also cute enough to be on track to be my first boyfriend. We could probably learn a lot from each other. And isn’t that what college is all about, mom and dad?

I laugh at the thought, but smile warmly thinking of the thumb drive currently nestled in my backpack. Boldest move ever? Nope. Not a mite, not a bite. Hopefully he’s got halfway decent taste in music because I will to judge him on selection and order. Don’t want him to be found wanting. After all, I’d hate to have to go to all the trouble of finding someone else to flirt with and lining up to be my boyfriend.

I open the door to my door room and find May midway through getting dressed. I almost forget to close the door and I find myself staring. If I’m Cool Tiffany, which I totally am, May is the absolute coolest. She’s fucking ice cold. May has perfectly blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, flawless skin. She’s the kind of girl that could have any boy she wanted wrapped around her finger. If I could have a body, it’d be hers. She’s got about four inches of height on me and probably another four inches of boob on me, despite being thin everywhere else. When God was handing out boobs, she looped back for a double helping. Having only got the single scoop myself, I’d hate life if she weren’t actually kind, too.

“Roomie?” She says, plucking me out from my thoughts.

“Yeah, May?”

“You staring?”

Yep. I was definitely staring, but Cool Tiffany plays it cool. “I was trying to remember what I wanted to tell you, but… I blanked.”

I swear the next words out of her mouth are “Do you want to make out” and I choke on the air with a cough. “Um, what?” I ask and this time she clearly says, and I clearly hear, “Do you want some take out? ...You know, are you hungry? I’m making a run.”

“Oh.” I say in response. Am I disappointed that she doesn’t want to make out with me? Maybe a little. That feeling is something I can add to my “things to explore in college” list. If the whole William thing doesn’t work out, maybe I try for a girlfriend next. Not that I’d stand a chance with May.

It takes me a second to realize May’s waiting. And, while I’ve been lost in my head, she’s stepped closer to me so I’m looking up into her eyes and feeling incredibly small.

Small and uncool.

Shit.

“I’m good.”

Nailed it. Cool Tiffany for the win.

“Okay. Text if you change your mind.”

The door closes behind her before I manage to squeak out my “I will.”

Feeling needy, I open my laptop, pop on my headphones, and stick in William’s thumb drive. I notice the label “Property of William Wilder.” I guess he’s expecting to get his drive back. Fat chance. It’s mine now, William. You’ll just have to deal. I don’t know if the maniacal laugh stays in my head or slips out my mouth.

The songs load in and… oh wow.

This.

Is.

Hilarious.

Apparently, he takes me for a connoisseur of cheese. And what a spread he lays out before me. It’s like he Googled love songs. At least he put them in a semblance of order. There’s methodology.

Love Me Tender. Can’t Help Falling in Love.

Can’t go wrong with the King.

Endless Love. Whole Lotta Love. Can’t Get Enough of Your Love. How Deep is Your Love. Truly Madly Deeply.

Focused on the amount of love which is, apparently, a lot. And segueing nicely into—

Crazy in Love. Crazy Little Thing Called Love.

Love is madness. Agreed. You know, from what I’ve seen in movies and TV.

I Honestly Love You.

He didn’t. He Olivia Newton John-ed me. Bold, William. Ballsy and bold.

Unchained Melody.

Oldie, but goodie. I’ll admit, rounding into this hidden track, I’m endeared.

I’m a Slave 4 U.

Oh. I get it. Unchained Melody into a Britney song about being a slave.

…Slave...

I’ve always wanted to be a slave.

Where did that thought come from? I’ve never wanted to be a—

A slave has no wants outside of their master’s.

My breathing quickens. My cheeks flush with excitement. My nipples go hard against my t-shirt.

I shuck the pants from my legs and rub at my slit through my underwear. I’m no longer in control. This feeling is in control. I’ve never been so turned on in my life. Pulling panties aside, I work at a wetness I’ve never known and just a few strokes in, I feel my orgasm dam burst.

“Aaahhh! Oh fuck!” I scream out into the room, shaking, my body completely rocked from head to toe.

And then it’s gone.

And in the stillness that follows, I settle into the realization that I am a slave.

I have always been a slave.

My wants are my master’s wants.

I look down at the thumb drive and read: property of William Wilder.

I am William Wilder’s slave.

William Wilder is my master.

WILLIAM WILDER

I’m officially lame.

I’m camping out in my room.

I’m waiting to hear from a girl who probably has better things to do than to listen to some songs I gave her.

I ordered pizza, using money that should probably go towards books, instead of being away from my dorm room phone for that hour by going to the dining center.

So I’m greasy fingered and lame and—

And then my phone rings. To my ears, it’s like a choir of angels singing hallelujah. That is, unless she’s calling me to say, “back the fuck off, weirdo.” That would be unfortunate.

It gets to the second ring and I pick up. “Hello?”

“Hello, Master.”

It’s a female voice. I can’t be entirely sure it’s Tiffany’s. It’s distant and detached.

“Tiffany?”

“Yes, Master.”

So she was amused by the hidden track and she’s having a bit of fun. I might as well play along.

“You may call me William, slave.” I say with a growing smile on my face.

“Yes, William.”

“What are you wearing, slave?”

“Just panties and a t-shirt, William.”

“What happened to your pants?”

“I tore them off.”

Interesting, but if she’s willing to push it, so am I.

“Then what did you do?”

“I fingered myself until I orgasmed realizing I was your slave.”

I laugh. I can’t help but laugh. To think, I thought she was vanilla. A little too conservative. Even if she’s just joking around, it’s hot to picture her sitting there in her panties masturbating to the idea of me as her master. I might as well push it until we can reach a point where she calls it quits and I can find out if she actually wants to go out on a date as I’m more interested now than ever.

“Do it again.”

“Do what, William?”

“Masturbate to the thought of me controlling you.”

The line goes silent for a moment. I think maybe that was the bridge too far, but then I hear it.

It starts with a soft moan and builds from there. I can hear her grinding her hand against her audibly wet pussy. Honestly, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say that Tiffany Taylor was in her dorm room masturbating because I told her to. And then she screams an incoherent scream that eventually becomes my name.

She’s either a master faker or she just came. Hard.

Real or not, I’m really fucking turned on.

I hear her panting out heavy breaths and decide to nudge. “Do it again.”

Another soft moan as she begins.

“Tell me what you’re doing.”

“I’m running a finger up and down my womanhood, William.”

“Call it your pussy.”

“My pussy.”

“Take your shirt off.”

Some rustling, then, “My shirt is off, William.”

“Play with your tits with your other hand.”

I hear the phone drop. If I didn’t believe it before, her not being able to manage her pussy, tits, and keeping the phone against her ear makes me absolutely certain Tiffany Taylor is now, miraculously, my slave. She picks it up and lifts it back to her ear.

Mid-another scream of “William,” I hear some other noise in the background. A woman’s voice talking to her.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“My roommate just came home, William. She looks upset.”

“Well, she clearly doesn’t understand the power of a perfect mix. Feel free to tell her all about it or make her listen to it if you want. I’m on my way over.”

MAY SANDERS

Midway through Freshman year and life is good.

Despite some admittedly questionable dietary choices, I’ve somehow managed to keep off the Freshman 15. Good genes, I guess.

Today’s dinner consisted of Chicken Dumplings and Shrimp Chow Mein. I was a good girl not scarfing it all down and brought leftovers back for my roommate. I’m wondering if I should confront her about her obvious crush on me. Not like I’m full of myself or anything, she just seems to lose her ability to speak coherently when I’m around. Besides, my fortune cookie read, “You will experience something altogether different today” and maybe that has something to do with Tiffany. Maybe today I confess my crush. On her.

I hear an odd noise (a grunt?) coming from inside the room as I balance the bag of leftovers while digging into my pocket for my room key.

Shit. These jeans are tight. Maybe I should lay off the take out for a hot second, genes or no.

As I open the door I say, “Tiffany, I brought you—“ but that’s as far as the words get out when I see her sitting at our desk, topless, and screaming out an orgasm.

And now I’m the one staring with nothing good to say.

What did I just walk in on?

I hear her speak into the phone, “My roommate just came home, William.” She looks at me for a moment, then continues, “She looks upset.”

Looks upset? I’m definitely confused at the very least as she listens to the phone briefly, even as I look on, and then hangs up. Not a care in the world. Seemingly oblivious to the fact that she’s utterly topless and doesn’t seem like she has any urge to reach for something to cover up. Her breasts are perky and cute, capped by some very hard nipples. No doubt a symptom of what she’s just done. She’s not lugging around the firepower I’m packing, but I envy her and her lack of back problems.

I should do something. I should say something. I draw a blank.

Is this what happens to her when she looks at me? I break the awkward silence.

“Um. Was that phone sex? You have some sort of side job that I don’t know about?”

And then, as if everything were normal about me standing in the doorway holding takeout while looking down at my topless roommate fresh from a screaming orgasm, she says, “You really should hear this mix William made me.”

“So we’re not going to talk about what just happened? And you’re not going to, I don’t know, put on some clothes?”

“Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“Yes. A little. Maybe I should go.”

She’s up and out of the chair like a bolt. She has a hand on my forearm. I can smell her sex now that she’s this close. Was she using the hand that’s touching me to touch herself? Does she know how confused I’m feeling right now? About everything?

Maybe she does, because she simply says, “Don’t go.”

With that, I kiss her. This girl I’ve known for six months, who I’m reasonably sure just had phone sex. With a guy at that. And I’m kissing her. She tastes wonderful as she submits under my tongue.

She suddenly pushes me away. “I want to make out with you,” she says, “but I want it to be special.”

She walks over to the desk and pulls her headphones out of her computer.

With a click, the voice of Elvis Presley fills our dorm room and my quiet roommate pulls me down onto her bed.

We kiss through Elvis Presley. Not just on the mouth any more. We kiss everywhere skin shows. She has me at an advantage there. I slowly start to catch up.

I lose my shirt to Led Zeppelin. My pants come off to Savage Garden, a soundtrack moment I never thought I’d have and I’m not super proud of it.

My bra is gone as Queen begins. She kisses my nipples, rolling her soft tongue over them. I squeak a bit, reveling in this dream come true. God bless that fortune cookie.

My underwear vanishes to… is that Olivia Newton John? Did I just shed my underwear to the woman from Grease?!? Actually, that’s hotter than Savage Garden.

My finger is in her and her finger is in me. I’m ready to climax when the Righteous Brothers finish, but when a Britney track starts, Tiffany goes completely motionless.

I sit up. “Tiffany? Why are you stopping? What’s wrong?”

“I’m a slave,” she says simply, matter-of-factly.

Everything that Tiffany did, with her mouth, with her tongue, with her hands, it’s nothing compared to the feeling coursing through my body as the music washes over, around, and through me. I vibrate on an entirely different level. Tiffany shudders to the song and my hands roam my body, gripping and kneading my breasts. One hand explores and rubs my sex.

Tiffany’s voice echoes in my head, repeatedly saying “I’m a slave,” but each time, it grows louder like it’s reverberating stronger and stronger. Like it’s knocking down walls inside me. Walls that support me. Walls that make me “me.”

I shake and shudder. It’s no longer Tiffany’s voice in my head, it’s my own.

I am a slave.

With the realization of this absolute truth, I gush in orgasm, born anew.

Tiffany holds a thumb drive in front of me.

My eyes focus on the words—property of William Wilder.

I am William Wilder’s slave.

William Wilder is my master.

WILLIAM WILDER

It’d be funny if I got to Tiffany’s dorm room and this was all an orchestrated stunt on her part.

Or a test.

Maybe she wants to see what levels of deviance I’ll sink to.

If that’s the case, I think about what boxes I’ve already ticked.

Demonstrate a proclivity to the master-slave, male dominance dynamic.

Check.

Gleefully listen to her masturbate over the phone.

Check.

What other opportunities to out myself as an overall average horny dude will be presented.

Knocking on Tiffany’s door, I see someone look through the peephole, then a bit of movement as the door unlocks, then… nothing.

“Hello?” I ask, but knowing that the door’s just been unlocked, I push inward.

Inside the dorm room, I find two naked young women on the floor in what looks like child’s pose. I feel like Alice through the looking glass. Weirder and weirder.

I step around the two, examining. The dark-haired girl I recognize. The blonde, not so much.

“Tiffany, who is this?”

“My roommate May, William.”

“Tell me about yourself, May.”

“My name is May Sanders, Master. I am eighteen years old. I’m from Seattle, Washington—“

“Stop! Stand, the both of you.”

Tiffany complies with a “Yes, William,” even as May stands with a “Yes, Master.”

Holy shit. With them face down on the floor, there wasn’t much of a view, but once they stand, I’m seeing them in all their glory.

Tiffany is completely natural. A thick, dark bush to match the dark hair on her head. Small perky tits capped with dark brown, pencil eraser nipples. Her most astounding feature is her ass—supple, almost too big for the rest of her, making it all the more sexy. Two dimples in her back just above it.

May is astounding. Shaved bare. Pendulous breasts with silver dollar sized pink areola and pronounced nipples the size of my pinky.

I reach out and cup Tiffany’s right tit.

“What’s your bra size?”

“30B.”

I give a squeeze and she moans in response.

“What am I holding?”

“My breast, William.”

“No. I am holding your titty. You do not say the word breast.” I grab the other one with my other hand and ask again, “What am I holding now?”

“My titties, William.”

“Good girl.”

She shudders with the approval.

“What about you, May? What’s your bra size?”

”34D, Master.”

I grip her pair. “What am I holding?”

“My titties, Master.”

“No. Yours are melons and you will call them melons.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Do you like my hands on your melons?”

“I love your hands on my melons, Master.”

“You cum just from melon play, especially if I pinch your nipples.”

As I pinch, I almost lose my grip on her tits as her full body shudders to an orgasm.

I take a step back from my breast power trip. How the hell did this all happen? What god did I please to put this pair in my control? I might as well ask them and try to figure it out. I don’t want to be greedy, but if I’ve developed some kind of super power, I’d like to know about it.

“When did you realize you were my slave?”

They both reply, “I’ve always been your slave.”

Thanks, girls. Sexy, but unhelpful.

“Tiffany, what happened after my call?” I ask.

“I did what you told me to do.” Tiffany answers. “I played your mix for May.”

“Um. What?”

“You said, ‘Well, she clearly doesn’t understand the power of a perfect mix. Feel free to tell her all about it or make her listen to it if you want. I’m on my way over.’ So I played your mix for her. I hope you don’t mind, but to make her listen, I made out with her. A lot.”

Don’t mind. That gives me more than a couple thoughts, all of of them dirty. “May, tell me about what happened when you came home.”

“I opened the door to see Tiffany screaming out an orgasm. She hung up the phone. I kissed her. She brought us to the bed and played the music. We stripped down and it get more and more intimate. Then the last song played and everything in my life was clear. I was your slave.”

She shudders just a bit saying the last word.

The music is the common thread for the pair. I walk over to the laptop and look at the song list. Obviously, the hidden track stands out immediately remembering it is I’m a Slave 4 U.

What exactly did I download?!?

JENNIFER CHEN

“Yes, mom. Yeah, I was actually studying when you called.”

A knock at my door, which briefly distracts me from mom. Small mercies. “Oh. Someone’s at the door. I don’t know who. But I’m an RA, so that someone might need help… It could be anything. I’m kind of honor bound to answer. I’ll call you when I can. I love you, too.”

I click off the call with a sigh and open my door to see May Sanders and Tiffany Taylor, the girls from room 231, standing there. They’re dressed in yoga pants and t-shirts. The thin material of their t-shirts makes it clear that both opted to go bra-less. I wonder if I’m going to have to have “a talk” with them, like I did with the exchange student in 239 who needed to embrace “using soap.” A little more distracting than their nipples, however, is the weird smile plastered across both of their faces.

“Hi Jennifer,” May says in an upbeat tone that makes me think she wants to sell me something.

“We were wondering if you could come check out something in our room,” Tiffany adds in the same tone.

“Do I need to bring anything? Fire extinguisher? Bug spray?”

“Nope,” Tiffany says. “Just you.”

I grab my keycard from my desk because there’s nothing lamer than a resident advisor locking themselves out of their room and then I follow the pair five doors down the hallway.

“How are things going?” I ask them as they lead on.

Both reply “Good.”

Ever so helpful, Stepford Dorm mates. I continue to wonder what I’ve signed up for. They appear in cahoots, so I’m guessing it’s not roommate mediation. I don’t smell smoke and they don’t look like they’ve seen a rodent… or a ghost. But hey, they got me off a call with mom, so I welcome whatever distraction they have lined up, even if it is as flimsy as their shirts.

They open the door and some random boy waves at me from Tiffany’s bed. Looks like another freshman. Do they need the condom talk? Maybe they need help convincing him that it’s totally cool for him to wear one? Thankfully, we role played this very scenario during our RA intensive training.

“Hey.” I say, establishing my approachable vibe for the room.

“Hey.” He responds. He’s got a smile eerily like the girls on his face. Hmm. Are they going to harvest my kidneys to fund a joint spring break trip? Hope they go someplace fun.

“So..?” I say, hand on a hip, eyebrows raised, waiting for them to finally tell me what they want.

“Could you listen to something for us?” Tiffany asks.

“Okay..?” I try to hold back the annoyance from my voice. Maybe they’ve started a band and want feedback. I could be getting in on the ground floor of a music revolution.

“We have a bet going,” the boy adds, probably in response to my ongoing confusion.

“If it’s the new Taylor song, I’ve already heard it and I don’t like it.” I say with a smile, fishing.

“Nope.” “Not it.” The two girls singsong at me, while the boy adds, “You’ll have to listen to find out.”

“So you’re all just going to watch me listen?”

They nod.

Humoring them, I sit at the desk with the laptop and put the headphones on.

What’s the worst that could happen?

Tiffany reaches around me and starts a song…

WILLIAM WILDER

When I ask Tiffany and May who would be the easiest girl to get into their room, they suggest their RA Jennifer. She’s apparently ready and willing to help. Ready and willing being my current M.O., I have them put clothes on before they leave and command them to “act natural.” There’s no need to show my hand too soon. I’m left in the room wondering what Jennifer will look like. More important, I wonder if my theory will pan out.

What’s that investigative theory? Sherlock Holmes, maybe? Remove all impossible solutions and whatever’s left, no matter how improbable, is true. My working theory is that there’s something going on with the song I downloaded from WeaverTunes.

If only Tiffany had decided to be my slave, I would assume it was just some cool kink I was fortunate to stumble upon. But then her roommate as well? Someone I’d never met previously? Too much of a coincidence to be a coincidence. Unless someone’s been pumping slave gas into their room—and in that case, boy am I screwed just sitting here waiting for them. The only common thread, tenuous as it may be, is the song. And so, I’ve sent them to get me a guinea pig to put this theory to the test.

The door opens and a tall, slender Asian girl enters with my two slaves. She’s easily pretty enough for science. She’s got probably two years on us, so she could at least go buy us alcohol if this works out.

So I’ve got that going for me.

Which is nice.

She’s initially confused by the request, but game to play along. Cute. She wants to be liked. I wonder what she’ll want to be in a just a few moments.

She sits in the desk chair and puts on the headphones.

Tiffany hits play and—whoa.

Theory proven true.

Her straight-back, authoritative posture softens immediately. Her head and shoulders slump forward, collapsing under the growing weight of a new basic identity. She starts shaking immediately after. And moaning. It’s too hot not to enjoy to the fullest so I gesture over and May slurps down on my raging hard-on, using mouth, tongue, and grip. As a haze appears and almost immediately dissipates around Jennifer, I watch this strange new girl spontaneously orgasm. She screams out and then slumps over, exhausted. I don’t last beyond that. I coat the back of May’s throat with a clenched-teeth groan of my own.

Tiffany takes my thumb drive and holds it in front of Jennifer’s face.

I laugh.

I had no idea my anal need to keep track of my possessions would lead to me add a growing number of women to my collection. I’m just glad Tiffany didn’t have a novelty “Property of” t-shirt or hat in her line of sight to start this whole chain of events. Who knows what would’ve happened?

I jump off the bed, not bothering to put away my half-mast cock, seeing as we’re all friends here, and take the headphones off Jennifer.

Hi,” I say.

“Hello,” she replies.

“I’m William Wilder.”

She immediately bows down to me and says, “Master,” reverentially.

“Strip. All of you.” I command and they comply. It isn’t a sexy stripping, by any stretch of the imagination, but the end results are no less delicious.

They all stand perfectly still and incredibly naked in front of me.

Jennifer has a lithe, athletic build, like that of a volleyball player or a ballerina. Flawless light brown skin. Tight ass. Untrimmed pussy. Maybe an A-cup, or a small B-cup, up top. I run my hands all over her body, taking time to grip her ass and fondle her tits. She shudders at my touch, but tries to remain still, awaiting command.

“Get each other off. Last woman standing gets to ride me.”

They ravenously attack each other in a mass of tongues and fingers. Roomies Tiffany and May seem to start in a truce, with Tiffany focused on Jennifer’s upper half while May works down below. Already peaking, Jennifer collapses in a screaming heap, leaving the two to face off against each other. Maybe they’ve learned how to press each other’s buttons in the previous make out session, but they’re quickly slick to the touch. They lay down in the bed opposite me, pistoning fingers and sucking nipples when not intertwining tongues.

Wanting more than the panting and moaning soundtrack they’re providing, I issue another command. “Talk dirty.”

“You’ll cum first, skank.” May said before she bends Tiffany’s head back and thrusts her tongue down her roommate’s throat.

Tiffany pinches May’s left nipple and she breaks the kiss with a mix of agony and ecstasy. “I know how to get you off, nipple slut.”

Clearly, the pair learned a bit about each other’s weaknesses during their last session. I’m just glad I’ve got a front row seat for round two.

May slaps down hard on Tiffany’s ass, then grips it tightly. “You’re going to have a big red handprint on your whore ass.”

Tiffany grips May’s right nipple and twists. May’s mouth opens wide. “Why don’t you keep your mouth like that? It’s the perfect ‘o’ to clean my juices off William’s cock after I’m done riding it.”

May’s hand dives for Tiffany’s clit.

Milliseconds after, Tiffany’s hand is on May’s.

Tiffany licks, then bites May’s ear. She quietly starts to “coo” into it. The coos then turn into words. “You like that, don’t you bitch? You like having my hand on your clitty. You can’t hold out. You can’t hold back. You’re a dirty little cumslut. And you’re going to cum. Hard. For me. Look up and see that your master wants you to cum. Right. Now.”

May’s damn bursts and the tremors of her orgasm shake her whole body.

Very pleased with herself, Tiffany spreads her legs wide, exposing her wet and ready slit. “Do you want me here or do you want to ride me there, William?”

I slap down on the mattress and she scurries over to me. Straddling me and grinding, her juices make my dick lubed up and ready for her.

“You want this inside you?” I ask.

“I want what you want.” She replies.

“I want to cum inside you.”

“Uhn. I want you to cum inside me.”

She lifts herself up and impales down on me slowly, her tight pussy fighting every inch as I enter her. Once I’m inside, she flexes, gripping me even tighter. Then, slowly at first, she starts to bounce up and down on my cock, increasing her pace as she continues to bounce.

Jennifer looks on from her vantage point. I smile with an eyebrow raised and gesture with my head to Tiffany. Following my unspoken direction, Jennifer reaches down and starts rubbing at Tiffany’s clit, causing her to buck even more wildly on my staff.

I catch May’s eye and she steps over and starts licking at Tiffany’s titties as they bounce up and down. She only stops briefly to say, “Who’s the nipple slut now, bitch?”

I grip Tiffany’s ass, using my arms to quicken her pace.

Her whole body, top to bottom, tightens above and around me as she cums all over my dick. Feeling her shudder puts me nearly over the edge. Jennifer sticks a tongue into my right ear and May the left and I finally cum inside Tiffany. Still in her own throes, she bucks for a couple more minutes before she flops down onto the bed beside me. Jennifer and May slump against us. It’s hard to tell, in this small bed, where one body stops and another begins. We are a perfect naked mess and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I’ve confirmed the song I downloaded from WeaverTunes made the changes happen.

I think of all the other songs on the site…

…and all the possibilities.

I’ve somehow gathered a growing rainbow of three beautiful women, but as a completest, I start to think about who else I could add.

And my post-coital smile grows even wider when I consider it’s not just who, but also potentially what else I can add.