The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

In the spring of last year, at a large high school in a commuter town in Connecticut, it happened that the attention of nearly every boy in school was fixed on a young first-year English teacher named Barbara Myers. Miss Myers did nothing to provoke this attention, but something about her was naturally provocative to her students. She was between twenty-five and thirty, a little shorter than average height, with neck-length blonde hair that was lightened a shade from its original sandy brown. Because of her crinkled, half-closed eyes and her wide mouth that was never too far from a smile, people usually described her as cute rather than beautiful, even though her features were perfect. She dressed attractively without pushing the boundaries of propriety, and she was just friendly enough to her students to suggest how much fun she might be as a peer. As spring arrived and she started to wear sandals, the students saw that she had a small tattoo, of a flaming sun with a smiling face, between her right ankle and her heel. Just as her work clothes couldn’t quite hide the bulging breasts that were somewhat too large for her petite frame, so her appropriate professional demeanor couldn’t quite hide a vivacious, party-loving personality. And no personality in a woman is quite so exciting to a high-school boy as that one. No one at the school knew much about her private life, but some students had sighted her once with a group of mixed-sex companions in a restaurant on a weekend evening, where she did a little spontaneous dance with a serving tray that a waiter had left behind. The story had quite an impact as it spread around the school; in one version of the story Miss Myers had been dancing on the restaurant table, and this version became the dominant one by dint of its superior imagery.

Lust in teenaged boys often expresses itself in terms of hostility, and one group of boys in particular became obsessed enough with Barbara Myers to want to take revenge on her for inspiring fantasies that she couldn’t fulfill. Unfortunately for the young teacher, the friends had a powerful weapon at their disposal.

And so, on an unseasonably warm night in early May, students Jason Wilson, Willy Rush, and Emil Emerick invited their friend George Kay to share several six-packs of beer with them in the city park after dark. George had graduated from high school several years ago but had remained in town, getting his own apartment and supporting himself by some invisible means. Not too much beer was consumed before the boys got to the point.

“We want you to do Barbie Myers for us, George,” said Jason.

“Barbie Myers. That little blonde teacher that you guys have been jacking off over?” said George.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s a bitch,” said Willy.

“What did she do?”

“She’s just completely stuck-up, and rude, and a cunt.”

“In other words, she didn’t do anything to you.”

“Yes she did! She does shit all the time.”

“Bullshit,” said George. “You just want to do her because she doesn’t want to fuck you.”

“No!” said Jason. “We want to do her because she’s a stuck-up, frigid cunt.”

“Okay, whatever,” said George. He thought about it over a swig of beer. “What do you want to do with her?”

The boys had devoted some thought to this. “We want to make her a stripper at the E Bar,” said Jason.

George pondered this concept.

“One of the ones that turn tricks,” added Jason.

“And make it so that she does us for free,” said Willy.

George didn’t have a lot of respect for these kids, but the teacher/stripper idea was working for him.

“Let me see what I can do,” he said.

The kids had come to George because they knew that he was somehow able to control minds. And so, a few weeks later, George and the boys were sitting in the E Bar with Barbara Myers on the bar top, leaning over Emil, smiling and playfully slapping him on either side of his face with her bare breasts.

Every dancer at the E Bar used a stage name, but George had cruelly made Barbara perform under the name Barbie Myers, no pseudonym at all, really. But she was an instant hit with the regulars, even before word got out about the high school teacher turned stripper. George had wanted to get Barbara up and running as soon as possible, and so had needed to work with her existing skills. And it turned out that Barbara had been a gymnast in high school, and had belonged to a modern dance company. George chose dance routines for her that were more active and athletic, and less reliant on overt eroticism, than anything else on the E Bar stage. She was the only girl in the club to dance in her bare feet instead of high heels, but what she lost in familiar erotic imagery, she gained in mobility and energy. And there was at least one fetishist regular who paid her double her usual fee to lick the dirt off of her soles after she danced.

George had scornfully refused to implement the boys’ request that Barbara fuck them for free. But the boys had marshalled their financial resources, and each of them had now gone exploring inside their former English teacher at least once. Barbara had given no indication that she recognized her students when she danced naked for them or fucked them.

Funds were low that night, but Willy and Emil had scraped together a few fives and tens, and were trying to keep Barbara in front of them on the bar top as long as possible. While Barbara was arching bachwards in front of Willy and spreading her cunt lips with her fingers (the E Bar was by far the raunchiest strip joint in the county), George and Jason were sitting at a table in the back of the room. George seemed preoccupied.

“This is pretty fucking boring,” said George.

Jason looked at him skeptically. “I feel sorry for you, dude, if you think that’s boring.”

“She’s practically a zombie. Basically, you’re fucking a big wind-up toy. But you guys don’t mind.”

“Uh—no, we don’t mind,” said Jason.

“But for me, it’s boring.”

“You want to see boring, you should have heard her lecturing on “Return of the Native,’” said Jason, taking a swig of his beer. George sat thinking a while, then said:

“Let’s take a little chance.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m going to start pulling away the control a little bit at a time and see what happens.”

“Hey, man,” said Jason. “You’re fucking with a good thing.”

“It’s got to be done very carefully. You won’t be able to tell a thing, if I do it right.”

“Then why bother, if you can’t tell a thing?”

George sighed. “Never mind, dude. Just run off and play with your friends.”

Out of a fog, Barbara would suddenly see, hear, or feel something; and then she went back into the fog. Some of the sensations were familiar, others were new and alarming.

Sometimes one sense would kick in before the others. Once she felt the peculiar sensation of her heavy breasts going weightless for a moment, then her chest pulling hard to the right. A split second later she saw herself in her living room mirror, twirling topless, a black bra with velcro straps in her hand. Briefly she was aware that she had pulled the bra off in one sudden gesture, and that she was practicing some movement in the mirror. The memory lingered as she drifted off. Another time her ears registered the bristling, wet sound of a straight razor shaving whiskers. Then she was looking down at her soapy, denuded cunt as she sat on the edge of her bathtub, and feeling the hot-cold-feverish sensation of newly shaved sensitive flesh between her thighs. She was shocked, because she had never shaved her crotch before; then she clouded over again.

Sometimes she tuned in on only one sense at a time, as when she found herself in the grip of a frantic, mounting orgasmic urgency that began somewhere in the walls of her vagina and was consuming more and more of her body. Along with this maddening itch, she felt an unfamiliar cock working back and forth inside her. This excitation was uncanny to Barbara, who had never had an orgasm without direct clitoral stimulation. The irresistible excitement traveled quickly through her chest and reached her head, and her awareness dissolved.

She was exposed, in random order, to all the locations and activities that made up her current life. Each carnal experience she flashed on was with a different man, but almost all were in the same set of rooms, in a motel behind the E Bar. The first time she became aware while she was dancing, she saw first the faces watching her, then the stage she was on. Like a row of dominoes, each separate part of her body checked in to tell her that it was naked: she felt in quick succession her perspiring ass cheeks rubbing against each other as her hips swiveled, the momentum of her flying breasts, the underside of her toes scraping on wood planks, a cool breeze evaporating the moisture on her cunt. As the totality of the moment fell into place, the blood rushed to her head and carried her away.

She had little time to reflect on or react to what she experienced. Soon the fragments started to repeat and take on the familiarity of a recurring dream. And eventually they connected in her mind and became a narrative, a story told out of order. After a few weeks of this, almost nothing she experienced was new to her. What had at first surprised her finally started to seem predictable. She began to wish for new dreams—except for the orgasms, which never seemed to wear out their welcome.

Before long Barbara was able to remain conscious from the beginning of her day to the end. The life she had seen only in pieces was now unfurling before her in chronological order. For a while she thought she was still dreaming, because she had no power to act or make decisions: she simply watched through her own eyes as she acted out an elaborate script. But this dream was too consistent and mundane to be a dream, and soon she accepted the unfolding narrative as her real life.

And it was a very strange life. For six hours a day she was a naked body on a stage, a moving display of female flesh, a few feet away from the hard-ons straining towards her. When she left the stage, she mingled and flirted with the hard-ons, and took as many of them as possible to the motel, where she fucked and sucked them. All the rest of her time that wasn’t spent sleeping was devoted to creaming, shaving, painting and decorating her body in preparation for the evening. The only regular nonsexual activity in her day was depositing money in the bank—and she was putting away an incredible amount.

Barbara watched herself from a distance, and learned a lot from herself. The Barbara who acted knew about things that were alien to the Barbara that watched: how and when to negotiate with a customer without spoiling the sexual mood; when to let herself enjoy the sex, and when to stay alert; which club employees to let feel your ass, and which ones to draw the line with. There was more arousal and more orgasm in this job than she would have guessed; she couldn’t control it, so she just enjoyed it. Fucking strangers was complicated but sometimes fun; dancing was simple and safe, thanks to the E Bar bouncers. Security made you feel sexy; feeling sexy made you look and act sexy, which made more money for you, which made you more even more secure and sexy. If there was anything more fun than dancing naked on a stage with a wet snatch and hard nipples, it wasn’t part of Barbara’s life at the moment.

Occasionally memories would drift into Barbara’s head. At moments she would remember that she had been teaching quite recently, or recognize the faces of people she had known before. But the memories were fleeting, and she didn’t hang on to them long enough to make connections.

Two things at once changed inside Barbara’s head one day. The first was that her life suddenly started requiring her participation.

It happened a little at a time. One night, after a dance, she threw on a tiny top and skirt, as usual, and began working the room. One of the men in the room, a newcomer, smiled at her, and she walked over, swinging her ass playfully. But, as the man asked her name, she had the peculiar feeling of half-waking from a dream: she waited for the automatic response to come out of her mouth, but nothing happened. As the silence lengthened, she realized that an act of will was required of her, and she panicked. She knew that the next line in the play contained the word “Barbie”—should she just say it? But she had never willingly called herself Barbie in her life. Would it ruin everything if she said “Barbara”? Or if she ran away? Terrified, she forced her mouth open and said “Barbie.” The word sounded like a thunderclap; she fully expected everyone in the bar to turn around and stare at her. But the man just smiled and said something about buying her a drink. To her enormous relief, she felt herself going on automatic pilot again, and the rest of the transaction was effortless. But the same breakdown occurred later that night, in almosr the same circumstances. Back in the bar after her first fuck of the evening, she spotted a regular client, a likable middle-aged gentleman who enjoyed spanking her lightly as foreplay, which was well within her pain thteshold. She liked to get his motor running by playing the little girl with him—but as she walked over, she suddenly found herself again in charge of her own body. As he stood looking at her, she debated feverishly with herself. She knew the script, knew exactly how to tease this man, but was it really something she could do? Every other option was frought with confusion and anxiety. Feeling like a grade-school girl in a play, Barbara bit her lower lip, tucked her chin, stuck out her tits, and slowly moved her upper body from left to right and back. The man chuckled in approval. It had worked. Barbara felt enormous relief, and a queer little dirty feeling inside. And the transaction started taking place without her participation. I could do this whole conversation if I had to, she said to herself. She was her own understudy, waiting in the wings.

A little while later, back at the hotel, Barbara was kneeling astride this same customer, her ass cheeks burning pleasantly from the spanking he had just given her. She had squeezed a condom onto the man, and had taken his cock by the base to guide it inside her, when automatic pilot shut down. She knelt there a moment, stupidly holding the man’s erect cock—it felt so uncannily real to her that she could identify the different veins pulsing beneath the condom. Every possible course of action felt infinitely uncomfortable. “Are you okay?” said the man, polite as always. “Yeah,” she said. She took a deep breath, felt around with the man’s cock until he was between her cunt lips, and sat back slowly. I’m now being fucked for money, she thought. And she found the thought odd, because she knew she’d been prostituting herself for quite a while. She rotated her hips a little to feel the man against her insides. Nothing happening yet, she thought, and so she began pumping her hips. It felt very very good, and she forgot to be self-conscious and started using a little technique. Sometime during the fuck, automatic pilot went on again.

The second thing that happened inside Barbara’s head, at the same time as the first, was that her memories started to return. More and more frequently, she was aware that she had been a schoolteacher a few months ago, and that she was leading her current life as a prostitute and stripper right in the midst of people who had known her in a more respectable context. These memories perplexed her. One afternoon, after she had showered, shaved her pussy, and made herself up (the last a body-wide endeavor taking more than half an hour), she felt herself go off of automatic pilot as she was ready to dress and leave for her nail salon. She looked at herself in the mirror and wondered if she should go to her school and talk to the principal, find out whether her job was lost forever. The thought filled her with anxiety and fatigue. Somehow she couldn’t think of anything exciting or gratifying about her former life to motivate her. She started to dress, and found herself pulling on a black skirt so tight that she could barely separate her knees. It didn’t look as if she were going to the school. And yet she wasn’t on automatic pilot yet. She checked the mirror again: even to her critical eye, she looked pretty good in the hip-hugging forties skirt with her bare breasts swinging above, lips and nipples rouged and skin perfectly white. Do I even have any tops that would keep the boobies out of the principal’s face? she wondered. Surely she must, in the back of some closet. It made her uneasy just to think about it. Meanwhile, she found herself wriggling into a push-up bra, which transformed her from a pleasingly big-breasted girl into a cartoon character. And yet she still wasn’t on automatic pilot. Well, I’m not going into school today, she thought, and felt enormous relief.

Each time she found herself able to control the course of her actions, Barbara felt a disabling anxiety and weakness at the idea of doing anything out of the ordinary, and a great comfort from following the script. Before very long she was thinking of her old life as an unhappy and nervewracking place, and it no longer seemed mysterious to her that she had left it. She certainly didn’t think her new life was perfect: she felt the discomfort of being on the wrong side of society, and she wasn’t indifferent to the element of risk in being a whore. And she would never get used to calling herself Barbie, though she saw the professional wisdom of it. On the other hand, her new life was lucrative and never boring, two things one couldn’t say about teaching. And it turned her on, there was no getting around it. Much of her time in the bar was spent in a tickling, delicious sexual suspense, where she felt as if she would come if someone blew on her the right way.

More and more she realized that she was dancing or selling herself in front of people she used to know—neighbors, acquaintances, or students. Once, as she was about to shimmy out of her bra while dancing, she found herself face to face with a fellow that she’d gone on three or four dates with last year. She chose to give him a smile and a wink of recognition before rendering herself topless. Naturally she felt degraded at moments like this, but pride and anger rose up in her to protect her from the humiliation. When she had the choice of avoiding such an encounter, she never took advantage of the opportunity: it always seemed preferable to say hello, flirt, be outrageous. It was a way of regaining power; and if an old acquaintance should become a customer, he (or, in one case, she) was then on Barbara’s turf, and the power imbalance was reversed.

As time went by, the idea of deviating from the script of her life was less exhausting and unpleasant to Barbara, and she began to tinker with the scenario a bit. But she had no desire to go back to the way she used to live. After a while, it wasn’t easy for her to tell when she was on automatic pilot and when she wasn’t.

The boys had scraped together enough money to rent Barbara for a private party, and they seized the moment when Emil’s parents were out of town one weekend. They invited George, who had been taking every opportunity to observe Barbara in action these last few months.

At 10 p.m. a horn beeped outside, and Jason ran outside to pay for Barbara’s cab, as per her stipulation. George enjoyed seeing Barbara squeeze a few extra dollars out of the boys. He had put some work into changing Barbara’s naturally reckless attitude toward money and giving her a marked interest in savings and investment. He saw her new career path narrowing considerably in ten or fifteen years, but his plan was that she would be independently wealthy by then.

Barbara breezed in the door in a low-cut black dress and flip-flops. “Okay, everyone, take your seats! We’re going to have a pop quiz,” she said. Her joke went over well with the boys. “Fuck that shit,” Willy laughed.

“You mean you guys haven’t been working on your summer reading list?” she asked innocently. More laughter; Barbara had an pushover audience. “No one reads that shit. It’s summer,” said Emil. “Yeah, I guess not,” sighed Barbara. “So, who do I have to sleep with to get one of those beers?”

A little later, Barbara and the boys sat drinking and chatting in the den. Jason had wheedled Barbara out of her dress and bra, and she reclined gloriously on the plush sofa, wearing only her thong panties and swigging a beer. Her feet were propped up on the lap of Emil, who was sitting at the other end of the sofa, playing with Barbara’s toes.

“So how was that guy who took my classes?” said Barbara.

“Boring,” said Willy.

“He’s a dick,” said Jason.

“He was temporary, though. He’s not coming back,” said Willy.

“I think you should come back and take the job again,” Emil said.

Barbara laughed. “Yeah, you guys would like that, wouldn’t you? Maybe you’d actually come to class then.”

“Yeah, we’d come,” said Jason.

Barbara shook her head. “I just don’t have any interest in teaching anymore,” she said. “It’s too hard, and too thankless.”

Everyone took a sip of their beers. Barbara stretched; the boys all watched her breasts move.

“So what do you guys think? I’ve been considering having my boobs done. Should I?” she said, fingering her left breast.

“Whoa,” said Willy.

“Why do that?” said Jason. “They look good now, and they’re real.”

“Yeah, they’re big already,” said Emil.

“They’re big for a schoolteacher, but they’re not big for a dancer,” said Barbara. “I’d make more money if I had them done.”

“No, don’t do it,” said Jason.

“I think it’d be cool,” said Willy.

“Bullshit,” said Jason.

“See, there’s an honest man over there,” said Barbara, pointing to Willy.

“I’m being honest,” said Emil. “I like them the way they are.”

“Yeah, don’t do it. It never looks right after,” said Jason.

“Oh, well, I probably won’t do it,” said Barbara, drinking her beer. “Just getting your opinion.”

A little while later, talking had stopped. Barbara, now completely naked, was kissing Willy, who was sitting on the sofa, his shirt off and his pants unzipped. She was writhing like a snake, pressing the length of her torso against Willy, working her hips so that her ass rose and fell rhythmically and her cunt rubbed again and again in Willy’s crotch. On a chair across the room, Emil had his cock out and was masturbating while watching Barbara’s undulating ass. He had had the presence of mind to grab a handful of tissues to protect his parents’ carpet.

In the kitchen, Jason, who had already enjoyed Barbara, joined George, who was keeping his distance from the revelry. George was drinking a beer, and seemed in a good mood.

“What are you so happy about?” said Jason.

“I’m happy at a job well done, dude,” said George.

“You mean Barbie?”

“Do you realize that I’m no longer doing a single bit of control on her? I’ve pulled it all away. It’s fucking anazing, if I do say so myself.”

“Yeah, but what’s the big deal? Nothing’s changed.”

“What do you mean, nothing has changed?” said an irate George. “She’s a real person now. She’s actually fucking you because she wants to.”

“Yeah, so?” said Jason.

George sighed and shook his head wearily. “Never mind, dude,” he said. “Never mind.”