The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I snoozed my alarm the next morning through my first class feeling safe and comfortable under the covers. But my duvet wasn’t thick enough to completely block out the morning light, and the futility of hiding from the inevitable forced me out. My dorm floor was mostly quiet except for the muffled voices of a few girls down the hall, maybe stalling in their rooms like me. Wearing just a T, I cracked open my door to see if anyone I knew was around.

Lauren, my across-the-hall neighbor, was at her door, still damp back from the showers. “Good morning, sleepy,” she chirped when she saw me. Her towel barely reached her long, tan legs, exposing indecent slivers of tan skin. “You’d better get ready for a long day; it’s a feeding frenzy out there. This morning nearly a dozen boys tried for me in my first class.” She cackled sadistically.

“Ugh,” I commiserated, scanning the hall, but from where I was, I couldn’t see anyone else. Checking was exactly what I was trying not to think about, and definitely not with queen bee Lauren.

“Can you even imagine what it will be like when we’re older, and it’s easier to check us?” Lauren continued ignoring my discomfort. Her overplucked eyebrows gave her a permanent “Oh really?” expression. I knew from experience she only wanted to hear me agree and would talk over me if I tried to say something that wasn’t gossip. Some people, I thought, are as bad as a collar.

Sarah, an autistically nerdy savant with coke bottle glasses, poked her head out of her room from where she was eavesdropping and saved me, “Except the percentage that tries for older women is commensurably less. You’ll probably get the same number of successes later in life even though you’ll be easier to capture.”

Lauren winced—she felt Sarah’s obliviousness to social cues like kryptonite—and pretended she hadn’t heard addressing just me. “At least we don’t have to worry about the same guys tomorrow now that we know they can’t check us. I hear most girls are pretty safe everywhere except the professors’ halls during office hours.”

“Oh?” I said with real interest.

Sarah butted in and answered for Lauren, who wrinkled her nose in disgust like she smelled a fart. Sarah, “Yeah, you’re pretty safe from professors in class because they’re busy. But demographically, they’re the most capable group of checking us. Only girls who really want it hang around their offices after class.” She kept going, not noticing Lauren’s glare. “A dozen boys tried to check you? I felt my collar go off only three times today.”

Lauren huffed and rolled her eyes in exasperation before retreating into her room. The bottom of her towel lifted as she turned, exposing a flash of all of her. Suspended between curiosity and embarrassment, I couldn’t help noticing her pierced lip. When her door closed, I smiled at Sarah and waved before ducking back into my room to change. I felt better about going to class. If Sarah and Lauren had survived, so could I, I thought.

I chose a baseball cap, jeans, and an oversized T, my best attempt at going incognito. It worked in the halls, but when I opened the door to the auditorium, I felt twenty checks in quick succession—the boys I’d teased and flirted with before were looking for me. I kept my head down and picked a seat near the back, feeling better when I was ensconced behind the fold-down arm desk like it were a shield. While I should have been taking notes on the Abnormal Evolutions lecture, I made twenty tick marks on my pad, one for each boy I counted in class. I looked for Eric, but his usual spot was empty. A cute blond-haired boy was in his seat. He had snake tattoos poking out from short sleeves. They made a mesmerizing spiral around his biceps. I wondered what he would have done if he’d succeeded. Probably make me sit awkwardly through class with him, I thought, and then screw me in his room for the rest of the day. Or maybe toy with me in front of everyone like Sam would have, bringing me to the edge of orgasm until I couldn’t help disrupting class. Or perhaps he would have felt me up while his friends watched and let them all take me together in a bathroom—an expellable offense, but it happened. Thinking about it made me feel helpless and then defiant. I decided that tomorrow, I would wear a hoody in the hallway but just a skimpy little tank top in class. I wanted to make sure Mr. Tattoos knew what he was missing.

Still free after two more classes, I felt more confident and lost the baseball cap. The failed checks confirmed viscerally what I knew intellectually, that only one out of around ten thousand could have someone my age. I told myself that like any risk—car crash, drowning, meteor strike—I couldn’t schedule my life around it. By the late afternoon in my next class, a small seminar, the attention began to feel more flattering than menacing, and I felt like a lion tamer giving the failures a flirty wink. Some of them wasted another try, and I smiled to myself mirthlessly.

A little later, eyeing myself critically in the bathroom from my dorm room while trying on outfits for my evening with Tom, I felt less confident. Next to Lauren’s tan, thin body, I thought my hips were too broad, and my stomach was soft. To top it off, I was cartoonishly short, barely 4′9. I tried to see myself as men did and batted my eyes in the mirror, looking past the pimple on my nose to my large brown eyes, which I thought were my best feature. My hair was up in a ponytail like usual. I wondered if boys tried for me because they thought I was easygoing, but I decided that didn’t make sense because if they captured me, I would have to be as easygoing as they wanted.

At first, I chose jeans and a conservative sweater to see Tom; I wanted to deter him from thinking of me as a slut despite the head start he had in that direction from the library. But maybe I had given him the impression I wanted to meet him for a hook-up today. I certainly wasn’t going to tell him what really happened yesterday. I changed my mind and picked a knee-length red floral skirt with a cute green button-up. In it, I could go either way while we got to know each other.

He lived three streets over from me in anapartment—he must have rich parents, and I knew a shortcut through an ally way. It was narrow and dark. There were a couple of men, probably janitors, taking a smoke break that I had to squeeze by. I felt double failed pings, and then I knew I was safe because there was no one else between me and the end.

“Here!” I texted downstairs by his door.

“Just in time,” he texted back. “I just finished cooking :),” which was intriguing—my experience with eating at other students’ apartments usual fell somewhere between takeout and stale pizza.

I’d forgotten how big he was until he opened the door, filling it vertically and horizontally. The absence of an attempted check was conspicuous and, although I didn’t want to admit it to myself, slightly disappointing. His friendly grin was infectious, and I felt myself smiling back at him like we were old friends. “Wow,” he said unselfconsciously, looking me up and down, “you look amazing.”

“Thank you,” I said, blushing a little. His shoulders and biceps bulged against his polo shirt. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

We went up a flight of stairs in a nicer building than I’d expected and then to Tom’s apartment. It was an efficiency, but the furniture was real, heavy wood—not at all like the cheap throwaway stuff in student housing. And it was sparklingly clean. I felt embarrassed thinking about the clothes and junk on the floor of my dorm room. Next to the books and laptops piled on the table were places set for two with a steaming plate of pasta with a spicy, garlicky, and thyme aroma. My stomach growled, and I realized I’d skipped lunch.

“Penne” was what Tom called the dish, arrabbiata, from old earth.” For a while, I pretty much forgot about everything else except how hungry I was and how good dinner smelled.

“If you’re hungry now, it is very good fresh,” said Tom, ready to eat himself.

“I would love to,” I said, trying only to let in the degree of hunger I felt ladylike show. Waiting while he poured two glasses of wine was torture. The first bite did me in. The sauce was simple and subtle, and underneath the taste of tomato and garlic, I was impressed at Tom’s ability to cook. I gave in and ate until I was full. Tom, also eating, watched me with what I was first afraid was shock and horror. But his smiling eyes told me he enjoyed my enjoyment almost as much as I was. After the first few bites settled in my stomach and took the sharpness out of my appetite, I asked, hoping to steer the date away from a hookup,

“What are we studying tonight?”

“Limits,” Tom said, his mouth forming a serious line as his brain switched topics. He didn’t need me to steer; he had a test on Friday that, if he failed, could keep him from playing ball. I would learn later in our relationship that nothing got in the way of Sports for Tom. His muscles and athletic grace were more than a passion for him; it was a golden meal ticket in a world that worshiped intellectual ability.

Once we cleared the dishes away and he’d cracked open his books, he put on his game face and forgot about me as a person. Basic equations absorbed his full attention, but rephrasing the simple textbooks to be even more simple only half occupied my mind. The sun hung low in the sky, and beams of light crept up the floor and walls creating toasty bars of light on Tom that bent to fit the contours of his muscles.

My mind wandered, and I wondered if he had obliques like an underwear model, and under the pretense of leaning in to look closer at the problem set, I rested my hand on his arm. The tendons tensed and relaxed as he turned the pages, and I imagined how strong he would feel holding me. In my thoughts, I imagined him successfully checking me, incapacitating me, and taking me like a rag doll on the counter.

But I knew he couldn’t even if he wanted to, and for the first time in my life, I considered consensual sex. From the way he looked at me, I guessed just asking what he thought about women who consented would be enough to get the ball rolling. I would reply, “No, I mean, what would you think if I consented?” giving him the opportunity to hit on me. The forwardness of it made my heart beat like I was about to bungee jump.

The words were on my lips, but at the last second, I lost my nerve, fearing he believed all the patriarchal bullshit about consenting women. Instead, I heard myself answering his question, “Imagine blowing up a sphere to be the same size as the Earth. You have to think about the curve really close up.”

“Oh,” he said, but I wasn’t sure he understood. If I stayed much longer, I wouldn’t be able to help myself. And besides, I was pretty sure he would pass his test at this point. I yawned conspicuously,

“Oh, Tom. Look at the time; I have to get back.”

Tom, startled out of concentration, looked up at me with puppy dog eyes, full of concern at my abrupt segway out of our study session. I gave him a big, reassuring smile,

“But we can meet again, what do you say we picnic by the lake this Friday? I’ll bring the picnic basket.” Secluded enough to be safe from checking, I thought, but public enough for me to be safe from myself.

He grinned back, reassured. “Sure,” he agreed in his deep bass. There was a pause when we said goodbye, and I think we were both wondering if he would kiss me. If he had, I wouldn’t have made it home that evening. But I wasn’t the only one to lose my nerve that evening, so I left feeling restless and a little drunk from the wine.

The sun was setting in a red conflagration of clouds, and I took the scenic route home through campus and the classics building. My mind was full of Tom’s rock-hard body and the twisting cables of muscles. I took one wrong turn absent-mindedly and then another, finding myself in a hall I didn’t remember with a mural of Old Earth that flowed orange in the last light of the day. I recognized some events like the nuclear harrowing that had made Old Earth uninhabitable, the fleet of colony ships traveling on exotic geodesics to uncountably many seed worlds, then the great winnowing and genetic divergence. Fewer than a hundred species of recognizable human descendants are left today. I paused at the last panel to look at the genetically modified apostates—giant gold figures, women that appeared to be half fish, horse people with too many legs, and finally, evolved beyond recognition, a whirlpool of tentacles. The images were a grotesque warning not to abandon New Terra’s breeding scheme and the Law of the Collar. The vivid colors and intricate details absorbed my attention so deeply that I didn’t realize what had happened to me at first.

“Ma’am,” said a man with a nasal voice poking his head out of a room. “Ma’am, over here, please.” My collar was tense with current. I had wandered to where professors had their offices and gotten myself checked. I took a deep breath and steeled myself for what came next. I tried to ignore the suspicion that I had found myself here subconsciously on purpose.

The plaque on the door said, “Dr. Stephen William, Professor of Old Earth Classics.” The person, I guessed the professor, looked more like an art student. He was young with long, dark, Albrecht Durer-style curls and clear green eyes. Also, he was pencil thin and moved with a wiry, nervous energy. He didn’t cut an intimidating figure, and my first reaction was to be more annoyed by the inconvenience than anything else. “Yes?” I snapped.

To my satisfaction, he cringed, but I hadn’t deterred him. “Sorry, but I’ve captured you. Please come in here. I don’t want to discipline you, but I will,” he said defensively.

I glared at him as I squeezed by him in the doorway. The room was tiny, more of a cell than an office, cluttered with shelves, journals, and knickknacks. Coffee cup rings scarred the little desk. It overlooked a recessed stone courtyard and fountain. Most of his books were impressive tomes in foreign languages, but I spotted a beat-up copy of the YA fantasy novel “Treasures of Akzalban” in an open drawer, which he quickly shut.

“I won’t keep you long,” he said apologetically. I said nothing, and he coughed nervously. His awkwardness made me want to giggle, but if there was any chance I could intimidate this man out of screwing me, I was going to take it. I couldn’t help comparing him to Tom, thinking how unfair it was for this dweeb to get to have me. “This should help,” he said, punching at his controller, and I felt wet and tingly between my legs, and warm, fuzzy thoughts filled my head.

I sighed, resigned, and switched strategies to getting him off quickly as I could. “Where do you want me, professor?”

His eyes lit up at my capitalization. “Call me Stephen.”

“Chelsea,” I said, reaching out to shake his out of habit. The heat of arousal was grinding away at my intellect, and the touch of his hand against mine sent little sparks up my arm. He guided me firmly but gently with his left hand on my lower back towards the window and desk.

“You know, not many young women come through here after hours for obvious reasons,” he chatted and put pressure on my shoulders. I followed his direction bending forward diagonally over the desk so I faced through the window at the students on the path below.

“I’m sorry?” I said, not knowing what he was talking about. The desk’s hard corner between my legs, and I struggled to keep from rubbing against it. Even though I knew what was about to happen to me, shyness and defiance kept me from giving in to Stephen’s artificial arousal. “Women don’t come here after hours?” I asked in a voice that came out more steadily than I thought it would. With every moment, the heat between my legs grew more intense. Despite how my body was reacting, the conversation felt awkward and clinical like I was making small talk with a doctor during an invasive exam.

“The professors, you know.” He was rustling among his notebooks and shelves, looking for something. “Students who want to pass their intelligence check hang out here. Office hours are the only time professors have to enjoy a student on campus.” He found what he was looking for, a slender book, and held it triumphantly while looking at me appreciatively.

“I’d like you to read this. It’s my translation of “Alex’s Story, an Old Earth classic. Inwardly I rolled my eyes at his conceitedness. Only an academic could sexually fetishize his own publications, but I got up on my elbows to take the book from him, trying my best to look impressed.

“Go ahead,” he said, encouraging. The cover had severe black trim around a painting of a feminine hand caressing a thick, red hot chili pepper. I thought it was pretentious. “Alex’s Story, Translated by Stephen William,” I read the title. It crackled a little when I opened it to the middle, the way new books do, and I began reading. I couldn’t keep the urgent quiver out of my voice—“Emily was lying on her back facing away from us, wearing nothing but the sports bra, one hand between her legs and the other massaging her breasts under the top.”

While I read, Stephan began groping me and exploring my body. He leaned forward over me, his erection resting against my backside, inching up my top so I was bare up to my bra, which he unhooked. I glanced to make sure, but I didn’t think anyone in the courtyard could see more of me than my face. I figured the university probably had a rule against this kind of thing on campus, but it wouldn’t save me now. When he pushed up my bra cups, my boobs rested against the desk, and the sensation of rough wood against my nipples interrupted my train of thought.

“Keep going,” Stephen commanded. I knew the people below could have seen the needy anticipation on my face if they looked up because I could see them smiling and laughing from above. I continued, the spasms from his touch making my voice crack: “When she pulled up her bra to free her tits, I gave into temptation, put my hand on Stacy’s, and guided her to stroke my cock through my pants. Stacy demurely followed my lead.”

Stephen tried pulling my skirt down from the top, but the angles were all wrong, and he couldn’t reach the zipper very well. So, he flipped it up over my waist, exposing the lacy purple panties I’d chosen for Tom in case we got that far.

Stephen got down on his knees and put his face between my legs to smell my panties and kiss the bare skin of my inner thighs. Without prompting, I kept reading, barely coherent now: “I had seen her naked before, but being bottomless accentuated the tidy vertical line of her newly shaved v. I imagined running my hands lightly along the outside of her cleft until she was so wet just the weight of my finger was enough to part her lips.”

When the professor pulled my panties down, putting his mouth and nose to my pussy, I couldn’t go on. I put my forehead down against the desk and whimpered, biting my lips to muffle myself as much as possible. He licked me like he was trying to get to the center of a tootsie pop, and I pushed my hips onto him and the desk. I gave in to the fire between my thighs and spread them, telling myself that I didn’t have a choice, that he was in control of my mind. But I still felt exposed and humiliated even as I begged him to fuck me. “Please, Stephen, put your cock in me,” I said, and worse.

He stood, and I heard him unzip his pants and felt him press himself against my entrance. “Read,” he commanded again, and his voice was husky. He slid inside me with no resistance, and when his pelvis slapped against me, it drove the desk into the window frame with a clatter. Below me, a fresh-faced undergraduate looked up open-mouthed as he saw me at the window gasping and moaning, doing my best to read in between the hard thrusts of Stephen into me: “I ran my hands over Emily’s exposed lips and slid my finger into her pussy, making her moan, but I stopped before she could come.” The words trailed off into incoherent groans and gasps. I was impressed at the strength of the professor’s skinny body, and I braced myself against the wall to keep the desk from rattling against the window again. The student below had his phone out and pointed at me, obviously filming. Because of my change in position, my bouncing tits were visible from his point of view, but I was beyond caring.

Several things happened at once. Stephen shuddered and groaned; he came with liquid force inside me, my artificially enhanced arousal began to peak, and a heavy knock sounded on the door, “Campus security!”

“Oh shit,” Stephen said, pulling out of me, splattering my ass with his last spurt. I continued grinding against the desk, desperately trying to salvage my orgasm. But the doorknob began to turn, my collar went slack, and my rational, self-conscious self got the upper hand. I didn’t have time to cover myself up before the guard exposed my backside to the hall as he opened the door, but luckily it was empty. I felt his failed check attempt even as he began to chastize Stephen.

I put myself back together, leftover spasms making my hips tense and quiver. Stephan, chagrined, spoke softly with the guard. A handful of bills changed hands, and the guard gave me one last look, no doubt remembering my bare ass, before leaving us with the door cracked open. I said goodbye awkwardly.

“I guess we got a little carried away,” Stephen said with an ingratiating smile.

I picked up my phone and responded primly, “You mean you got carried away? I was captured, remember?” I left him to clean up the smear of sweat on his desk and the nicknacks I’d knocked over onto the floor. He had the last laugh. I was still wet between my legs from his cum and my juices, and he’d left me unsatisfied, still hungry to be filled.

Releasing me canceled the collar’s programs, but my body was still reacting to the extreme sensations Stephen had inflicted. Zings and quivers ran through me, and I struggled to keep my mind out of the gutter. A part of me wanted to loiter and find someone to finish the job. Instead, shaking from adrenaline and desire, I did my best to freshen up in the bathroom.

Tom had texted me, “Are you home ok?”

“Yes,” I lied. I felt guilty and tried to tell myself it wasn’t my fault.

I wouldn’t realize until the next morning that the video of me was going viral—“Office Hours Slut” it was titled. And everyone saw it. Everyone