The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The moment I left Mike, I got painfully horny, for no good reason. My dick just suddenly got hard, and I felt like I needed a hand job. Well—it’s not like I’d never felt that way before. I could ignore it. I decided to go sit by myself in the courtyard.

But my feet wouldn’t take me there. For whatever reason, I couldn’t ignore the horniness this time. I found myself walking over to Elizabeth Morton, and touching her back. I kind of snuggled up to her from behind. She was talking to some friends. “Huh?” she said, turning around. She had on a green shirt that smelled of washing-machine detergent. “What do you want, Solomon?”

I knew her sort of, we’d once done a science project together. “Um, nothing,” I said, my face flushing. But I couldn’t stop touching her, even when she pulled away. “I...really need a hand job,” I said. Then I covered my hands with my mouth. What was I saying! But I was still standing there, looking at her hands like they were my salvation. She had medium-sized hands with whitish translucent nail-polish, and they just looked so sexy.

“You creep!”

She pushed me away, but I just came back again. “Please? Pretty please? I wouldn’t ask, except...except....” I wasn’t sure how to finish. It was a dire emergency, that’s all I knew. But she wouldn’t think that. Why should Elizabeth Morton, that I hardly knew, care if I had a horniness emergency? She didn’t owe me any hand job!

She narrowed her eyes. “Solomon, what’s the matter with—”

I ran away, my face burning, my dick still raging in my pants. I wanted to die. There were kids all around, laughing and making comments—though not as many as there might have been once. Nowadays, this kind of thing made people feel nervous instead of laughing. I wanted to tell them it wasn’t Mike’s fault, it was me! Me! I was the asshole. But that would only have made things worse. I was a creep. I was dead.

And still I couldn’t stop. I crept over to some black girls sitting in the corner. One of them, I think her name was Taysha, something like that, said, “What you want, white boy?” She was broad and kind of pretty, with short kinky hair and dark red lipstick. Trying to sound all tough.

And she was tough. I was going to get killed. I hung my head. “I...need a hand job,” I mumbled.

“What? Talk up.”

I took a breath and looked up into her eyes. “Sorry to bother you. I need a hand job.”

Her hand flashed out, and she slapped me, hard. My ears were ringing. “Fuck off,” she said, hands on her hips. “You ain’t need any hand job from me.”

I fell down, crying, and crawled away in misery. My penis was a torture. My tears dripped off my nose, and down to the floor. What would I do? What could I do? If I didn’t get a hand job....

I stayed there until lunch was over, crying, forcing myself not to get up and beg another girl for help. It would never work. I was lost. My life was over.

Eventually, I heard people leaving the cafeteria. Someone threw the remains of a peanut-butter sandwich at me where I sat huddled on the hard, dirty floor. After a minute, I picked it up and took a bite. I hadn’t had anything to eat. Not that it would matter if I didn’t get a hand job by the end of school. I started to cry again.

Someone was coming towards me. I looked up, and flinched away. It was Elizabeth. My dick flared painfully. “I’m sorry,” I sobbed. “I’m just...sorry.”

Snot was running down my upper lip. She handed me a napkin, and I blew my nose. “You’d better leave me alone,” I said, shaking my head. My voice was shaking. “I’m not sure I can control myself.”

But her eyes were sympathetic as she crouched down next to me. “What will happen if you don’t...get a hand job today?”

I just shook my head and stared at the floor. I started to sob again. I couldn’t answer.

She rubbed her hands on her thighs, as if making a decision. “OK, I’ll take care of you,” she said. I looked up. My penis was heavy, burning, in my pants. She touched my arms on each side. “Sit up. Take it out.” She glanced around. “Let’s get this over with before they clean up in here.”

I started sobbing even harder, but that didn’t stop me from unzipping and letting out the monster that had done all this to me. Compared to how it felt, it didn’t look like anything: just a little red hot dog.

She took it in her hand. It must have been burning hot, but she didn’t say anything. Her face was quiet as she began to work me. She looked at me for a moment—I was still crying helplessly, tears dripping off my nose—then she looked away, across the cafeteria. With her side turned towards me, her elbow was free to swing, which made the motion easier.

The sensations in my sexual parts could not have been called pleasure. For one thing, it hurt—physically. My dick had been so hard for the past hour or two that it was exhausted. It felt kind of numb.

“I wish I...I’m so sorry, Elizabeth....” I moaned, leaning forward a little and holding onto her shoulder as I knelt. I desperately wanted to ask her to stop, but I could not. This was my one chance.

Why did I need a hand job to survive the day? I had no idea.

She turned her head towards me. “Don’t sweat it,” she said. “It’s not that big a deal. Not compared with all the shit that’s happened around here.” She thought for a minute, still stroking me firmly. “I’m glad I could help,” she added.

I looked up at her, and felt a connection. Like an electrical connection, as our eyes touched. My throat was still tight, but a weight was lifting...I would live through the day. “Thank you,” I said, then I had to close my eyes. “Thank you so much.”

A minute later I finally went over the edge. I groaned, and fell forward, my semen dirtying my pants and the ancient, gritty linoleum of the cafeteria floor.

She pulled her hand out from under me, and though I was still facing downward, I could hear the rustle of paper as she wiped her hands on a napkin. Then she patted me on the back. “Take it easy,” she counseled. “You’ll be OK tomorrow, I bet.”

I groaned, praying she was right. But I had a bad feeling about tomorrow.

“Thank you.”

Nothing happened the rest of the day. I didn’t learn a thing in English class, but at least Cristina didn’t try to talk to me afterward. After school, near the bus stop, Amelia Lambert—a friend of Sue Harper’s, that was determined to get into MIT—was walking around with her top torn half off her, looking drunk or stoned, rubbing up against boys and asking them for money.

I offered my sweater to her, but she just rolled her eyes at me.

Hell had come to G. M. Bailey High School.

The next day, I felt OK in the morning. I felt OK on the bus to school. But the moment I walked through the doors I was struck with an overwhelming desire to see a girl naked. Not just see her—I had to cum while I was looking at her. And it had to happen by the end of the day. Just like yesterday.

All the girls around me suddenly looked infinitely desirable—I just had to get them out of their clothes. I didn’t have to touch them, just look at them. I looked at Sue Harper as she walked down the hall to her locker, remembering her naked body in Senior History. She was talking to Jessa, her friend, who always wore a purple purse that hung from her shoulder on a long blue strap. I wanted—I needed to see them without their clothes. I needed them to sit still while I got off.

That was flatly impossible. I racked my brain. Why was this happening to me? Why couldn’t I be normal again? I went to my locker and leaned my head against it. Maybe there was a way...an idea formed in my head. But I couldn’t try it before the afternoon.

In the meantime I was a mess. I kept staring at girls. In Senior History, I sat in the front to be away from Mike, staring at Carlos as hard as I could to avoid looking at Sue on my left. She tried to talk to me after class. I ran away and hid in the bathroom.

I just barely stopped myself from hiding in the girls’ bathroom. But you wouldn’t see naked girls in there, really. They were naked in the locker room, of course, but there would be nowhere for me to hide and jerk off. And I was ready—almost ready—to die rather than try that. I had to stay calm. I could do this.

Finally the bell rang for lunch, and I ran home, and got all the money I had—$126—and took it to the Pleasure Palace on 6th Ave. I was eighteen, too young to go in a bar, but they let me in. I think it actually wasn’t a bar? I didn’t see drinks. The walls of the waiting room were all pink and purple, and a lady with bleached blond hair and a thin smile took me inside to the pleasure rooms.

It wasn’t pleasant—actually it was shit—and it cost all my money, but I got the job done. I went back to school with $1 and a sad face, but I lived through another day.

The next day—Thursday—I had to have a blow job. I wouldn’t have made it if I hadn’t gotten lucky. Right after math class, Amelia offered me a blow job for $5 (I’d gotten some money from my utterly naive parents). After I came—in a stall in the boy’s bathroom on the third floor—we held each other and cried on the toilet for a few minutes. Then we went back to our miserable lives.

Friday, I’d’ve given anything to stay home, but I had to go to school. I remember standing outside, dreading the metal touch of the front door. Kids pushed around me, and Eddy Camden banged into me, pushing me into it. And then I knew.

I had to get laid today. Deep down, I’d known this was coming. It couldn’t be Amelia, since she’d done my blow job. Whatever was happening to me had rules. I didn’t know what prostitutes cost, but more than $19.50.

I was going to die today.

I didn’t fight it. I wasn’t quite as horny, for whatever reason, as I had been all week. I mean—I guess I was, in a surreal way, but it didn’t quite feel real. I knew it was over. The school was gray. I just dragged myself through the day. Math. English. My parents would be sad.

I made a point to speak to a few friends. People shouldn’t think it was their fault. Elizabeth asked if I was OK today, which I thought was awfully sweet. “I’ll be OK,” I said, and tried to smile. “I think I’m getting a cold.”

At lunch, I sat under a tree with thin green leaves. What kind of tree was it? I was kind of interested in botany, but I had never learned to identify trees. Now it was too late.

When lunch was over, I just lay down, and looked up at the sky through the leaves. It was cloudy.

It was after 1pm when I had a thought. I hadn’t seen Latoshi all week, but I knew where she lived. It wasn’t far from my house. Latoshi would understand what was happening to me. I knew she would. There wasn’t much she could do about it, of course, but I needed someone to talk to.