The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Ms. Withford was a prim and proper lady, a woman of impeccable taste and very good manners, which she owed to a sheltered life in a rich New England family. She had matured into a demanding teacher and a stern disciplinarian, a woman with no time for fruitless pursuits. Her perfect resume and obvious dedication made her Fillmoore Academy material. She had been fetched a year out of University, lured by a lucrative offer which provided her with the privilege and opportunity of participating in the upbringing of young girls destined to become the cream of the female social elite.

It was a point of pride for Ms. Withford, and a duty she took extremely seriously. What puzzled her somewhat, like an annoying stray thought which remained elusive, was the series of improbable circumstances which had led her back to the privacy of her office, during a long break between classes.

The hot flashes ... the inability to concentrate... the secret yearnings welling up inside her...

She looked out at the rainy Wednesday afternoon as she sat back in her ornate leather chair, spread her legs wide, ripped her drenched panties off, and began to indulge in a seance of intense masturbation.

Oh... yes... yes... yesyesyesyesyesyes

Her wrist became a furious piston, fingers of her right hand spreading her labia wide, while the left pumped two digits in and out frantically. Her juices were dripping down onto the edge of the leather chair, which had grown slightly discolored; she was long past her first explorations of solitary pleasure here. The squeaking of the bolts underneath it echoed the rhythm of her thrusts, as did her stifled cries of pleasure.

Ugh... ugh... ugh...

Ms. Withford. Teacher. Wife to a dapper fellow in the advertising business, a man of some importance, gifted with irreproachable manners and a keen eye for the publicity market. A man who took his work extremely seriously, a man who was constantly travelling across the country, leaving his wife alone just long enough for her to forget her slight dislike of his boorish nature. It was a shame that Desmond had turned into such a dreary husband; otherwise Ms. Withford would not have resorted to fantasizing about taboo Sapphic encounters with one of her students.

Joanna... oh... Joanna... yesssssssss

Joanna Christensen. Age 16. A girl of superlative intelligence and looks, the bright star of her English class. Ms. Withford had studied her file when the young woman first came to Fillmoore, and was delighted to discover the prodigy had skipped two grades in early high school; she still showed no sign of having yet reached the limits of her academic potential. Ms. Withford had grown fond of the pretty blonde girl who seemed to excel with such ease. The student sounded so sweet, attentive, gifted with a musical laughter that was invariably infectious.

She wasn’t quite sure when thoughts of the young girl eating her fiery, moist pussy had first penetrated her brain.

Lick it Mistress... lick it... please... accept my offering... oh... ohhhhhhh

The thoughts were strange. Alien. Inconceivable. Not at all the kind of musings befitting a woman in her position. That fact was very clear to her, but it also appeared to make not the slightest impression upon her behavior. The raging fire of passion consumed any hesitation or restraint.

Ms. Withford, with her white notch-collar blouse pulled obscenely open to free slick, heaving breasts... with her knees wide apart, her protruding clit lodged atop puffy, swollen and glistening lips, longing to be tongued...

Ms. Withford... was not quite herself anymore.

She continued on, masturbating furiously, trembling, thrashing, moaning like a depraved slut. She thought of how she was debasing herself unabashedly, finger-fucking herself in her office, at the heart of a conservative school for sweet, tender young girls. Her savage arousal increased as she momentarily dwelled on the thought, before it vanished in a torrent of pleasure, replaced by another: Sapphic communion with the teenage Joanna, the sweet, gentle Mistress that governed her lust. It was simply the most powerful image her mind had ever forged. And with it came the deep yearning, the growing desire to submit. To a subordinate, to one of her students. Confusion and desire mingled in her mind, like swirling, beautiful colors upon the canvas of a master painter.

Her frenzied activity had gone on for nearly thirty minutes, but despite her best efforts, she couldn’t quite reach the edge of climax. Neither could she stop herself from trying, driven onward by her mad lust.

Eventually, she lifted her head somewhat, taking care to lick the salty sweat which had dribbled down to her lips, and froze for an instant. Through stands of disheveled brown hair which had been tossed around with the rest of her lavish mane in her unbridled excitement, she glimpsed her smiling face.

Joanna.

She blinked and gasped in surprise, a shudder coursing through her, flooding right to the center of her pussy. Her widening eyes instantly focused on the familiar silhouette, which had suddenly fused into existence before her. A deep, bestial groan rose from her throat at the thought of how depraved and slutty she appeared, and she almost climaxed then and there.

Joanna was quietly sitting upon the desk, her left hand propped upon a thick, jumbled pile of ungraded essays. She had a surprisingly well-developed body, far more curvaceous and ripe than one would expect of a sixteen year old. She stood at 5′10, with shapely round breasts that shamelessly stretched the fabric the silk tube top she wore. Her gliding hips, firm buttocks and slender legs were crossed coyly, barely covered by an extremely short satin skirt. Wrapped around her feet were high-heeled sling backs, showing red-nailed, feminine toes.

In a moment of lucidity, the teacher wondered how a student could possibly wear such outrageous attire without instantly attracting the fury of any member of the Academy staff. The moment dissolved quickly while her eyes roamed over the young, exposed flesh.

She was there... all this time... watching me... uhh... uhhhh... ohhhhhhhh

The young girl remained silent, content to observe the scene of her teacher’s utter sexual debasement with amused interest. She leaned back on the desk, propping her hands back and letting her legs sway over the edge of the massive desk. Her slightly muscular frame still retained a certain air of soft femininity, through a strange trick of the eye that had, perhaps, something to do with her perpetually delicate stance and demure countenance. The student’s eyes remained the most engaging feature of her oval face, pools of chocolate brown that drank up the slightest detail around her, separated by a delicate nose that curved slightly upwards at the tip.

Ms. Withford felt herself plunging into a dark, unctuous ocean that drowned all of her heterosexual leanings, pouring down her mouth, nose ears, through her skin, destroying all will to resist. Her obsessive lust continued to grow, and with it the realization that she was on the verge of submission. It was beyond her to even question the origin of such formidable cravings anymore, and she quietly surrendered to the alien contentment of giving in to the raging, passionate fantasies that obsessed her.

“Well, well, Vanessa,” Joanna whispered huskily, taking a special delight in using her teacher’s first name, “It would appear you are quite... ready.“

Her pouting lips twisted into a devilish smile which spoke of self-assurance far beyond her years... and a delight in the older woman’s total surrender. Her voice resonated with the commanding authority of a practiced seductress who knew that every word she spoke would enthrall. Ms. Withford moaned as she continued to sink into the blackness, her feelings for Desmond-for all men-melting away as she faced the new truth of her enslaved existence. Delicious images continued to explode in her mind, women sliding digits in mutual cunt-fingering, teasing clits with long, hungry tongues, sucking ever possible orifice and crevasse the female form offered up for worship. The murky waters washed away all of her volition, leaving only the need to serve.

Her juices flowed freely from her slit, permeating the air of the cramped office with the heavy scent of profound arousal.

“Pl... please... ll... let me...” Ms. Withford begged.

“Submit?” Joanna offered, grinning evilly.

Ms. Withford grunted savagely as the words triggered an orgasmic blast. Pleasure exploded inside her, momentarily vanquishing all thought. Her mind was a burning flame, her quaking body brought to the limits of endurance. She twisted in the chair, legs quivering, fingers plunging frantically, making a slight slurping noise as the inner walls of her pussy quivered against their heavenly intrusion.

There was no desire, no need so pressing, so urgent, as to obey. The mere suggestion threatened to subjugate her, and she sensed sweet unconsciousness was not far off. She quickly realized that her fiery, wet cunt was merely the epicenter for a greater, coming upheaval.

“Yes... yes please... Mistress... I want... need... to... sub...mit... ugh... ugh... uuuuuuhhhh...”

Joanna nodded with a suddenly grave expression, while her eyes locked with Ms. Withford. The older woman felt the strange presence inside her brain, a hot, probing knife sliding through the layers of her consciousness. She had no will, no desire to resist, no instinctive or reflexive defense. Ms. Withford embraced the young girl’s intrusion of her innermost private self eagerly. Memories and recollections began to whirl, changing, morphing into her Mistress’ wishes. With profound grace and a tangible sense of deep ritual, Joanna slowly slid off the desk, her eyes still drilling into Vanessa’s.

The teacher writhed and cried as the verses echoed in her mind, the voice of a Goddess reciting the oft read words she cherished, printed in the worn copy of Dickinson’s works shelved within arm’s reach of her desk. With them came acceptance.

The moment was upon her.

Ms. Vanessa Withford was no more, the very second Joanna’s young, ardent tongue slid between the folds of her labia, and deep into her screaming pussy.

Her mind surrendered, fulfilling her deepest, most earnest wish.

I ... am... yours...

The furious storm subsided, and darkness claimed the woman’s broken soul, leaving her a hollowed husk. The teenage girl stood up and glanced fiendishly at the unconscious body of her new slave. Her eyes caressed the sight of a dripping pussy, while she gently rubbed a finger over her glistening lips. She savored the familiar taste, rubbing it over her tongue.

“Dearest little cunt-slave,” she whispered smugly, “It has always been thus.”

That night, a burning candle glowed, shining a timid light upon the walls of Headmistress Georgina Faulkner’s private salon, inside her residence. The grand old dame herself was no where to be seen, however. She was upstairs, in bed, lying naked upon the covers, with her eyes glued to the featureless, white ceiling. Her elderly body was exposed in all its unsightly glory, her pendulous breasts flattened by gravity, her wrinkled, grayish skin kissed by the ambient air.

Not a thought entered her brain. She was now the obedient servant of Sondra-She who had Spoken the Truth.

The private salon downstairs was furnished in the Edwardian Style, a period Headmistress Faulkner revered particularly. Virtually everything, from the grand sofas to the embroidered curtains which flanked both sides of the French windows, was reminiscent of English pageantry. A large Indian rug was spread across the varnished wooden floor, upon which a petite girl with slender shoulders and long raven-dark hair kneeled humbly. Her head was hung in what could almost be mistaken for prayer. She wore the customary white blouse with the stitched heraldic pattern and flowing plaid skirt of the Fillmoore Academy, her feet bare, as they always were whenever she was alone in the presence of She who spoke the Truth.

Her name was Claudia, and she remained immobile, spellbound, while Mistress Sondra scrutinized her thoughts from her comfortable position upon the cushioned sofa. The Truthspeaker, about ten years older than Claudia, was a strikingly beautiful woman, owing perhaps to the unmistakable aura of predatory passion she exuded out of every pore of her lovely skin. The curves of her pale, aristocratic features spoke of her high breeding and her love of fine things, but also of arrogance so common in the rich and powerful.

There was something else hidden in that seductive facade. Something darker.

Hers was the last face a great number of men across the world had ever seen; cruel, heartless features that twisted in hatred as she spoke their names and ended their lives. But to others, to hundreds of women, she was the face of Truth. The voice that shaped their will. The reason why they lived and breathed.

The Goddess of their idolatry.

Sondra traced her finger gently around the slight cleft in Claudia’s lowered chin, ran a red nail across the bottom of the girl’s lip, all the time feeling the servant’s psyche as she perused her every thought. She did not treat Claudia like the others; she paid special attention to what she did and took care not to damage her. The young woman was a rising star amongst the Lost Daughters after all, and that alone entitled her to some consideration. The waif had stirred from the patriarchal sleep in her eleventh year, but had not yet enslaved her first when Sondra happened upon her, in the streets of Paris. Under the tender teachings of the powerful Truthspeaker, that had soon changed.

Sondra mulled the memories over, mixing her own perceptions with Claudia’s in the hope of gaining a clearer picture of the situation. Sensations of touch, scents, twinkled and spiraled in the telepathic maelstrom. The Mistress rode the spinning storm, succumbing to the temptation to shape and reshape minor details simply to amuse herself. There was always a moment of weakness, when she ignored the commandments of the Lost Daughters, and indulged herself. Perhaps it was her familiarity with Claudia, fueled by the secret opinion that she deserved to own the girl. Just as she deserved to own every other Lost Daughter she discovered...

Just like every drone she enslaved.

Claudia was to be a Truthspeaker just as she herself was; Sondra simply had to resign herself to that fact. Claudia and herself were of a rare breed, part of a cabal that was still very much vulnerable, despite increasing resources, and a growing mass of drones to obey their will. Yet, effortlessly breaking the will of mundanes, reducing them to writhing sapphic worshippers, toying with their simple minds until all trace of their older selves had been completely dissolved had long ago lost its charm. To Sondra, the minds of fellow sisters held so much more promise, so much more complexity.

She continued to ride the currents of Claudia’s mind, feeling the delightful sparks racing inside the brain like Northern Lights in Arctic skies.

Sweet Claudia... without secrets... without will... a Truthspeaker spellbound by another...

Sondra’s pussy felt a familiar, agreeable tingle.

She slithered out of Claudia’s mind abruptly, and smiled down at her subordinate. Claudia opened her eyes, reflective ponds of complete void that slowly filled with rising self-awareness.

Sondra wiped the lusty grin off her face, and assumed a serious expression.

“Speak, child,” she ordered, using the appellation she had long ago adopted for their private conversations.

As the memory of Sondra’s mindtouch faded, Claudia obeyed readily.

“The Lost Daughter is powerful. i stayed behind when she left the teacher, Ms. Withford” she began, her voice somewhat monotonous. “i made myself invisible to her, and she did not know i was there.”

“And what have you discovered?”

“There is little left of Ms. Withford’s persona. She has been enslaved for some time.”

She looked up into her Mistresses’ eyes, hoping for a sign that she was pleased, but Sondra simply nodded matter-of-factly, prompting her to continue, in the same mundane tone.

“The Lost Daughter is coming of age. She is aware of her power, and seeks to refine her skill. She has wiped Ms. Withford’s recollection of her slavery on at least two occasions, perhaps because she finds the act of enthralling her particularly exciting. However, Ms. Withford’s mind will eventually refuse to forget.”

“What of the others?”

“She has already enslaved a quarter of the teaching staff, as well as most of the girls in her dormitory.”

Sondra frowned at that. She couldn’t think of a similar instance, where a rogue Daughter had come so far without the help of enlightened Mistresses. She remembered the gray areas inside Claudia’s recollections, as well as this rogue’s ability to work her powers over so many sluts, and suddenly felt the twisting pangs of jealousy welling in her cold heart.

Her pale face reddened monetarily. “You did take great care in avoiding her influence, did you not, child?”

“Oh yes, Mistress!” Claudia chirped, her voice suddenly coming alive in her eagerness to deny any such allegation. “I can withdraw from it quite easily, and she hasn’t shown any ability to pierce the veil I have maintained around myself.”

She paused, pouting. “She is nothing, Mistress... Her touch is crude... so unlike yours...”

She flinched momentarily as Sondra suddenly reached out with her index finger, pushing it against her forehead. A second later, she moaned painfully as her Mistress violently tore inside her mind, actively sifting for any evidence of interference or tampering. Warm drool dribbled from the corner of Claudia’s mouth, while the inside of her head was thrown topsy-turvy.

When Sondra was satisfied of her servant’s integrity, she caressed the light blemish that had formed on the skin, gently receding from Claudia. Slowly, the young girl’s awareness returned, but with it a growing itch in the cavity between her supple legs.

“Yes... I can see... my commands are obeyed still, child. I grow wary of this Lost Daughter’s potential. Should you feel the brunt of her attention...”

“I would resist!” Claudia proclaimed zealously.

“Resist...” Sondra murmured. “Resist...”

Claudia felt her head swoon once more, but this time her cognizance remained. As if carried by wings, her body glided upwards, until she floated upon wobbly legs. Sondra’s finger had traced a path between each of her tender breasts, down her belly, and underneath the folds of her skirt.

Her Mistress reached within, searching for the humid grove of her womanhood.

Claudia stiffened as the storms of bliss thundered like black clouds above. She was like a puppet whose strings were suddenly, rudely pulled. Through soaked cotton panties, her Mistress was rubbing her inflamed button, to the rhythm of songs Femalekind had long forgotten.

“How is it that a would-be Truthspeaker could be so submissive?” Sondra pondered rhetorically, with wickedness and delight in her tone.

Claudia, now reduced to a mere instrument of Sondra’s pleasure, answered with a shrilled squeal as the orgasmic thunder tore her apart.

Chelsea O’Neill, honor roll student and accomplished school athlete, was never one to panic easily, but she could no longer deny that she was on the brink of losing her mind. She dashed into her dorm room, and quickly slammed the door behind her, shrieking hysterically.

She had always been on top of things. A life spent in upper-middle class neighborhoods, away from city crime, had allowed her to build a strong identity for herself. Unlike most of her friends, who were content to aspire to meaningless lives sustained by large trust funds, she had worked hard in school, in the hopes of building a career for herself. Scholarly excellence, as well as a fairly active extra-curricular schedule, had opened many doors for her, landing her a scholarship in a renowned academy, with a straight road to her dreams of achieving corporate stardom.

Her immediate entourage wondered about the shapely, attractive redhead’s lack of desire for romance, but close friends knew that her drive to succeed had overridden what she playfully termed ‘the perpetual chase for Mr. Wrong.’

Not that she despised guys-she simply had no time for them. In reflective moments, she wondered if that is what had led her to choose Fillmoore.

Her first semester at the all-girl Academy had heralded her enduring status as foremost student, while her involvement in athletic competitions and other extra-curricular activities had earned her the respect of her peers. She was rocketing ahead, building the future she wanted for herself.

Chelsea wasn’t quite sure how it had all tipped into the abyss. For that matter, she wasn’t sure of her own recollection of events. She would have dismissed her present thoughts as utter paranoia weeks before; now, they filled her with a sense of genuine dread.

The girls at Fillmoore were possessed. Controlled. Guided by a strange influence, which for some reason had left her, until now, unaffected.

The hints were subtle at first. Though she was aware that on-campus associations proliferated in schools all through the year, the emergence-and eventual prevalence-of ‘Sappho’s Haven’ posters all over the walls of the Academy had aroused her curiosity and suspicion. The purple banners, announcing weekly meetings that featured ‘Poetry Readings, Tea, and the Warm Contemplation of Womanly Delights’, struck her as almost inflammatory, considering Fillmoore’s historic stance on such things. Never mind that she knew for a fact that some girls at the school were rabid homophobes.

Yet no one, in the student or teaching body, appeared skeptical of the club’s activities.

Then, underlying clues came to light, leading her to think something very, very... weird was going on.

Denise Lowell. Pam Rocheford. Terry Johnson. Girls she knew. Girls who had shared her puzzlement at first, and who had later completely changed their stance about the whole thing.

“My God-I was so glad you brought me, Denise!” Pam had exclaimed over lunch, two weeks ago. The completely blissful smile was the first clue Chelsea noticed. Then, there was the way both of her friends had stared at each other, over on the other side of the cafeteria table, which had made it clear to Chelsea that something less than innocent had transpired between the two.

Terry was next. Soon after attending a meeting of the ‘Haven’, she began looking at Chelsea with hungry, wandering eyes.

There was a abnormal spark glowing in their eyes, something that had to do with the secret they all shared. Chelsea recognized it all over the school, in growing frequency. The enigmatic smiles, the knowing glances. And meanwhile, large groups of girls were suddenly gravitating around each other. She saw cliques which had been established for years inexplicably dissolve, replaced with new minglings, all with attendance to the Haven meetings as their only common denominator. The usual, normal competitiveness and antagonism that thrived in any school also vanished, replaced by an unspoken sense of sisterly camaraderie.

Girls who did not occasionally sport the Haven’s T-shirts, or spend some time with bona fide members of this so called ‘reading’ club, became few and far between.

The dreams, meanwhile, had begun their sweet torment.

The new girl from English class... Joanna Christensen... Chelsea had first heard that name during English class, called before her own, when Ms. Withford handed out papers in grade order, in the second class of this semester. Knowing the rigor of the teacher’s correcting style, Chelsea had wondered how this Joanna had scored an A+ on her first effort. Over the next few week, the pair constantly competed for first and second place when it came to grades, Chelsea occasionally coming out on top. The mystery girl had remained aloof through the semester however, and Chelsea had somehow failed to even exchange so much as a hello with her, despite her usually straightforward and outgoing manner.

Every night, strange images flashed in her mind. She would wake suddenly, her sweaty sheets stuck to her skin, her heart throbbing. She remembered little of the dreams, except the haunting gaze of... Joanna. Joanna, who seemed to sing to her in a strange compelling voice. Though Chelsea’s nipples were stiff, and her nether regions slick with moistness, she would always shift around in her bed and quickly think of something else.

Then, slowly, the images invaded her waking thoughts. Heavenly depictions of female nude bodies, of gentle hands stroking heavy breasts, titillating her despite the awareness of no such sexual inclination on her part. Daydreams in class became erotic storms that threatened to engulf her. The urge to masturbate, once limited to a twice-weekly ritual, soon increased to the point where it was all-consuming, and completely impossible to ignore.

One night, the dreams had become so explicit and intense that Chelsea decided to seek out help. Unsure of how to cope with her growing obsession, and not even certain she would be able to bring up the subject in conversation, she made her way hesitantly to the office of the school counselor.

The shock was great as she stood in the doorway of the woman’s office. She had seen Miss Lagherty here and there at the Academy, and knew her to be a tall but slightly round brunette in her early forties. Not the body of a model, to be sure, but certainly not unattractive.

Chelsea was greeted warmly a mere instant after she had knocked upon the door, by a woman adorned in a leather corset, with sharp metal spikes protruding from her ‘nipples’. The young student, struck by disbelief, gawked downward at the counselor’s stiletto-heeled boots, which gave her another four inches of height. Her long legs were covered by fishnet stockings.

She grabbed Chelsea by the arm, pulling her in. “Thank Goddess you are here. I was wondering when you’d be showing up.”

Chelsea tried to remain calm as she gazed upon this caricature of a porn star.

The counselor-turned-dominatrix spoke in an agreeable tone. “You don’t have to feel embarrassed or silly. What counts is that you are willing to reach out for help. I’ve advised a few other girls with hang-ups far worse than yours. I’m sure we can take care of your fears in no time.”

“Let go of me!” Chelsea shrilled.

Miss Lagherty did so, slightly surprised. Her mascara was beautiful, her eyelashes long and curling, her red lips brushed carefully with glossy crimson. Beautiful... and far too unchaste to be deemed acceptable by the Academy Headmistress. More a picture of a call girl than a counselor.

“What’s going on here? What’s happening to this place?!” Chelsea exclaimed.

The woman recovered quickly, giving the student a warm smile. “It’s entirely normal, my dear,” she said, “the usual bit of disorientation at first.”

The counselor continued to flash her smile, which was becoming frightfully seductive. Her hair was carefully shaped in an intricate bun, and a sudden stray thought in Chelsea’s mind made her wonder how it would look if the prostitu-counselor loosened it.

“It... it’s normal?” she said, bewildered. She was losing herself in Miss Lagherty’s eyes.

“Yes. You feel like an outcast. You are an outsider, while the rest of the girls are indulging themselves. You ought to change your mind about the meetings.”

“What?!”

“Well, I can tell you, I’ve been several times now. It is absolutely incredible. It will surely alter your perspective on things. For the better, I assure you.”

She squeezed her tights together, shuddered, and winked at her playfully.

“You’ve... been there?” the young student repeated, fear rising inside her.

“Of course. The Academy is very strict about such things.” Her eyes were filled with that spark of conspiratorial confidence everyone else seemed to share. “We wanted to keep an eye on things, since school authorities are responsible for the proper education of all its charges. We were quite satisfied with the results, and we’ve encouraged many other students to participate. In fact, I know many among the staff attend regularly.”

Something inside Chelsea’s mind snapped. In an instant, she was bolting out the door, out of Miss Lagherty’s office, running madly. She barely noticed that all the corridors of the Academy apparently deserted. Turning a corner at top speed, she almost hurled into Denise and Pam, who were heading in the opposite direction. They both focused on her with that strange glimmer in their eyes, holding books and bags innocently, though their stance somehow indicated a more sinister purpose.

Chelsea froze.

“We were just talking about you,” Pam said candidly.

“Looks like she was in the counselor’s office,” Denise mumbled to Pam, her eyes still locked on Chelsea.

“I bet I know what she told you,” the girl added, addressing the frightened girl. “Are you going to go, finally? I think you’ve been avoiding us long enough.”

“What?”

“Come on, Chelsea,” Pam said in a beseeching tone, while carefully depositing her shoulder bag and books down at her feet. “You know you’re just dying to go.”

Pam was also putting her schoolbag down.

Chelsea took a sudden step back. Then, she screamed as both of her friends reached out in perfect unison, and took her arms.

“There’s a Haven meeting that’s right about to start, actually,” grunted Pam, her teeth clenched as she struggled with her quarry. “Ms. Hillmon, ah... cancelled her Latin class so we could hold one instead. We’re desperate to... invite... all of the stragglers that are left.”

“Come on Chelsea,” Denise added, “stop putting us off. I swear you’ll thank us for this!“

Chelsea shrieked in desperate fury, and tore herself from the grip of her assailants. She twisted around and began running in the direction she came from, pure adrenaline driving her forward. She continued to bolt through empty corridors, trying to outrun her own panic. Unthinking, she made her way towards her dorm room.

She dashed into the private chamber, and quickly slammed the door behind her. She was shrieking hysterically as she turned to put her face against it. Her hand twisted the lock and secured the bolt.

“Finally,” a husky voice breathed behind her.

It was like a sudden splash of hot water, catching her completely unaware. She almost fell over, while her reeling mind tried to cope with the flashing images that assaulted her. Her nipples hardened instantly, painfully, while her knees shook under the titanic quake rippling in the center her womb.

She turned around slowly, her face becoming pale as she saw the figure lying across her bed. Her dilated pupils focused on the intruder’s body, on the sensual curves she suddenly yearned to run her tongue over. The sight of Joanna Christensen, whose nakedness was barely concealed by ruffled white sheets, sparked another tremor of pleasure.

“I am so looking forward to having you, dear little cunt-slave,” Joanna mused aloud, with barely concealed excitement.

Chelsea slid to her knees, her runner’s strength and stamina abandoning her. She had to lean into the door to stop herself from keeling over altogether. The skirt she wore had a wet spot in the front, growing by the minute. She continued to pant, her lungs gasping for air. Her hands gripped her breasts of their own accord, tugging the nipples hard, while the second orgasm subsided.

She couldn’t think straight. A flame was lit inside her, threatening to engulf her.

“Whuu... why?” she barely managed, trying to regain her mental faculties.

Joanna was impressed that her soon-to-be cunt-slave could still form coherent thoughts. “Odd question, that,” she observed softly. “I would have expected you to beg for me to stop.”

Chelsea gazed at the girl with wide, terrified eyes.

“Won’t...”

“Yes. You will” Joanna replied confidently.

“N...nnn... noooo” Chelsea managed, her voice straining with effort.

The girl’s resistance to Joanna’s assault was nothing short of admirable. “You’re right,” she said to Chelsea, in an oddly defeatist tone. “Maybe I can’t stop you from... say... calling for help?”

The clouds in her mind dispersed. Chelsea felt strength surging in her legs. She picked herself up at once, feeling the energetic rush of desperation, and recklessly dove for the phone on the tiny desk five feet away from her, almost banging her pelvis into the sharp corner’s edge.

She punched in ‘911’ with trembling fingers, and looked apprehensively towards the bed. Joanna appeared more interested in the smooth polish her nails. “It won’t work. It’s not like you can tell them the truth, cunt-slave,” she said, as if aware that Chelsea was staring at her.

The word sparked a flurry of thoughts in Chelsea’s mind, and she felt moisture tickling down between her legs.

“911 emergency” a female operator answered.

“Send help, please—”

“Hold on-don’t worry, you’ve got the line, we’re recording this call, tell me calmly what happened.”

Recorded. Thank God Chelsea thought.

Fear made her voice tremble. “I’m at 21 Charlston Drive... west of the city... Fillmoore Academy... you have to come and get me.”

come yes come come for the mistress come yesssss

“It’s alright, tell me calmly what happened” the voice repeated, “do you need medical attention?”

attention crave attention sweet attention of my mistress attention yesssss

Chelsea stifled a moan. “My Mistress wants me to submit. Please send the police before I start eating her pussy out.”

The receiver was silent, the operator at the other end presumably stunned.

“Please... please... you have to,” Chelsea continued in a supplicating voice, “she’s corrupting the whole school! We’re all becoming slaves... her sweet little obedient cunt-slaves... you have to come quick before I become one of them!”

Chelsea felt tears streaming down as emotions raged inside her. Fear and dismay, clashing with sudden, twisted urges, battling for control.

Her mouth spoke strange words, against her will. Worse, she felt her pussy throb as the sound of every single one of them.

“Ohhh,” cooed the woman at the other end of the phone. “Fillmoore. Fillmoore. Right. Been getting calls from there all week. Quite the horny little bunch of lesbo pussy lickers, aren’t you all? I’m surprised there’s still a few free spirits left at all, though I have to admit I enjoy keeping the recordings to myself. I play them at night. Mistress Joanna usually lets her slaves put down the receiver so I can hear her fuck the daylights out of a new girl.”

The operator was giggling.

“Oh God... ohgodohgodohgod...”

“Why don’t you hang up now, Chelsea?” Joanna whispered softly.

The phone was stuck in the student’s hand, while she struggled against the command. “There’s no... way... that you corrupted every 911 operator in the area...” Chelsea began slowly, trying hard not to stutter. “There is no way for you to know which operator is going to answer.”

She bared her teeth. “You’re trying to trick me...”

Chelsea hung onto her words for dear life. It was her single remaining hope, around which her will to resist was anchored solidly.

“You’re right,” Joanna conceded with an evil smile.

Chelsea blinked, and suddenly realized she was speaking into a long, rectangular hairbrush. Her eyes fell to the desk, but she saw no telephone resting upon it.

Even as Chelsea felt the tides of fright and panic rise up to swallow her, she was dimly aware that her pussy was gushing.

Joanna felt the need to move things along. “I refer you to last week’s philosophy class-specifically the discussion on the ethics of power.”

She gazed lovingly at her crying cunt-slave, who still held onto the brush as if it were the key to her salvation.

“Absolutes,” Joanna whispered huskily. ”My power... your corruption.”

Joanna’s heart warmed as she stared at the young girl. “I’ve elected to spare you from the steady hold I’ve cultivated over this school, mostly because I’m... fond of you.”

The hairbrush slipped from Chelsea’s and clattered on the floor.

“I like you,” Joanna breathed, her voice entirely honest. “I wanted your submission to be a special occasion, to occur once I had fully honed my... abilities...

“Do you know what is it like, to simply enforce your will on another? To discover the true depth of an ability that you always possessed, yet never truly understood? It took me years to even realize that I had a special gift-it seemed so normal for women to go along with whatever I wished... I didn’t understand just how far they were willing to go, until I came here...”

She winked at Chelsea. The struggling victim had begun rubbing herself frantically through the thick fabric of her skirt, yearning to cum, even though the dwindling part of her brain that was still fighting knew that the slutty, depraved act was a reflection of Joanna’s will.

“Do you understand the honor bestowed upon you? Do you grasp the limits to which you will go, my little cunt-slave? Yes... I believe you understand... and fear... you have been granted the luxury of witnessing your own downfall... of actually being aware of your fate...”

Joanna was breathing heavily, caught up in her own game of seduction. “I don’t usually taste fear in my converted slaves-they are too eager to submit... but I taste it in you... I taste it... but I also feel your need to give in... your urge to embrace this fate I have ordained for you...”

Chelsea began moaning like a bitch in heat, the full assault upon her psyche beginning anew. Her body was radiating the heat of a star, the urge to give in tearing her mind apart. She wanted to shed this identity, she wanted to submit, give in, give up her identity forever...

Something stirred inside her, something ancient... a memory of a time before history...

No... can’t...

Joanna’s amused laughter was the purest indication of the uselessness of struggling.

“Enter!” she called out.

On cue, the doorknob turned, and the door to the dorm room opened. Behind it, smiling like angels, stood slaves pam and denise. Chelsea had a vague recollection, while she tried stroking herself, of having locked it when she came in.

“Understand, cunt-slave” Joanna murmured, reading her mind, “understand that your memories... your perceptions of reality... you very mind are but a playground to me...”

Joanna shivered in quiet excitement, stroking her own clit in anticipation of the girl she was about to enthrall. Slaves denise and pam slowly stepped into the room, grabbing Chelsea by the arms once again. They held her up, keeping her steady on her feet. Then, deftly, they pulled on the moaning girls’ clothes, lifting her shirt off, pulling her skirt and dripping panties down. Slave-pam unhooked Chelsea’s bra, letting it drop to the floor.

Their prey stopped struggling. Chelsea’s eyes rolled up into the back of her head, her psyche drowned by the torrential flow of pleasure... as the slaves gazed lovingly at their Mistress’ latest convert, at her glistening pussy lips, and sweat-slick breasts... Chelsea would make a fine addition, and both slaves could hardly contain their own excitement at the realization that their friend would finally know true fulfillment...

“Bring her to me,” Joanna ordered.

They guided her to the bed. Lifted her up gently. Chelsea’s legs rose up, obeying the will of her Mistress, until her spreading knees came to rest upon the soft pillows, Joanna’s pretty head between them. Slaves pam and denise, responding to Joanna’s mental commands, began caressing Chelsea’s body.

Submit, Chelsea, Joanna called out mentally, Let the flowing essence of your older self seep from your pussy as your will to resist vanishes forever...

The burning commands seared themselves in Chelsea’s soul, the rivers of passion washing away all that she ever was. She felt the tongue of her Mistress gently caress her outer lips, smearing itself with juices. She felt her innermost identity trickle down to her womb, dissolving into insignificance, into nothingness... she felt it trickle down further, through her vagina... and unto the hot tongue of the womanly creature who devoured it.

I am nothing without her... my existence is meaningless... I live only to obey and serve... my Missssstresssssss...

Her resistance, her will, her heterosexuality soon followed... she was being drained, turned into a blank slate... her life robbed, destroyed...

Joanna’s tongue delved deeper, snaking in and out, licking Chelsea’s clit. Her face was already coated with her slave’s juices, but she hungered for more.

She parted her slave’s labia, thrusting deep inside with her tongue... sucking, licking...

The slave came for her Mistress.

It was a storm of fire and light, a bolt of pure energy that discharged from Chelsea’s pussy, spreading through every nerve ending in her body. She screamed, howled, rocked back and forth, barely held in place by the two other slaves. She felt what was left of her mind shifting, fusing into something other... something new.

There were no memories, there were no thoughts but of her Mistress.

When the searing fire of the orgasm subsided, the other slaves laid her body carefully beside their Mistress. Her eyes were wide open, staring up into the ceiling, empty of all sentience.

Joanna whispered words into her mind, while slave-pam and slave-denise slowly removed their clothing, to join their Mistress in the second part of the ritual she had concocted for the girl’s induction.

You are now mine... she commanded slave chelsea, you are a servant... what you were is no more... it still lives somewhere inside you, but it is a sham, a pale reflection, a device to lull others into a false sense of security... a shell that is skin deep...

A new essence must now flow inside you... making you one with your Mistress’ will...

Slave chelsea’s jaw became slack, and her tongue slowly slid out. Joanna slowly bent down and kissed her passionately, drawing the spellbound girl’s tongue deep into her mouth. Their saliva mixed with female juices.

Joanna prolonged the kiss for a full minute, and smiled impishly when she noticed a minuscule spark of life in her slave’s eyes. Her lips detached themselves from her slave’s with a sloppy sound, and she nodded approvingly as slaves pam and denise came to her.

Aren’t you happy, my sweets? Your friend shall soon join you in blissful servitude...

Yessss, the women answered in their minds, truly, greatly delighted.

They caressed Joanna, their fingers tweaking her nipples, running over her fair skin. Both began nuzzling Joanna’s neck, their tongues slowly caressing her, thrilling her in their amorous abandonment.

The Mistress shifted upon the bed, coming to rest over Chelsea’s face, in a reversal of positions. She glared down at the panting human husk, and closed her eyes.

cunt-slaves... won’t you be dears... mmmm?

Slaves pam and denise heard the order and obeyed. Their hands slid down Joanna’s exquisite body, and began stroking their Mistress’ cunt. Expertly, they heightened her arousal, and were rewarded with waves of pleasure, as their Mistress, too, gently brought them closer. Her hands laced around each of her servant’s waists, stroking the base of each spine, sliding in and out of the crevice of each round ass... fondling their submissive, receptive little minds.

She sighed, feeling herself grow wetter by the second. She focused on slave chelsea’s insatiable thirst, stirring in her the need to slurp down her juices, before carefully lowering her cunt down on the girl’s waiting mouth.

Instantly, slave chelsea’s tongue came alive. It began lapping up the slickness of Joanna’s cunt avidly, which, combined with the effect of slave-pam and slave-denise’s touch, was quickly bringing the Mistress closer to the delicious climax. She began pacing her breaths, while roaming the inside of slave chelsea’s mind a final time...

Obedience... submission... love... lust... Mistress... slave... they are the cornerstones of your psyche... the fundamental truths of your deepest, secret self... you are mine... all mine...

The flux reached critical mass. With a sharp motion, Joanna thrust a finger up the tight assholes of each of her slaves, before the orgasm exploded in her. It fired off simultaneous eruptions in both of the writhing, moaning women fingering her.

She felt the stirring inside slave chelsea’s mind, it’s new, emerging awareness. The former student continued to lick like a woman possessed, while her hips gyrated, her own cunt throbbing, firing one orgasmic fulguration after another, as she too, climaxed with her Mistress.

Slave chelsea felt a warmness spreading throughout her body...

When the mewling and moaning had subsided, cunt-slave chelsea looked up into the beautiful eyes of the one who now ruled her world...

I... am... yours...

The words came to Joanna’s mind, as they had many times before. Always when she inducted a new slave. She repeated them aloud, still puzzled by the strange thought’s origin, but nevertheless aware that it felt so right to say it:

“Dearest little cunt slave... it has always been thus.”