The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Mrs. Baxter’s patience was wearing thinner by the moment. “What is going on here, Mrs. McLeod?” she demanded. “Who is this Jimmy, and what has he got to do with hiring “teachers” who don’t even have a teaching certificate? For god’s sake, that’s not even allowed under ministry regulations! Not to mention the Lovebright’s tradition of hiring only first-rate faculty! Is it possible you have forgotten that too, the way you have forgotten everything else about running a school?”

The shapely headmaster wilted before the other woman’s rage. She tried to think of something to say, if only to buy time. That comment about Lovebright’s first-rate faculty was another exaggeration.

Still, blondie Baxter did have a point. Crystal’s appointment was technically unsanctioned. Ordinarily Mrs. McLeod was punctilious about that sort of thing. Crystal was such a sweetheart, and obviously so popular with the boys that she had decided to let it go this time. She would get her degree, eventually.

Actually, it had been Jimmy’s suggestion that she hire Crystal; he had an unerring sense for this kind of thing. Mrs. McLeod hoped he would get here soon. She wasn’t sure she could hold off Baxter much longer.

“Mrs. Baxter, let me explain the situation with Ms Sexsmith,” the headmaster said, thinking quickly. “We were lucky to get her, all things considered. She was finishing her master’s degree in education and incredibly, taking the teaching certificate courses in her spare time, when Mrs. Hardling resigned so suddenly. We realized that it was slightly unconventional to bring on a teacher who hadn’t officially finished the degree, but Ms Sexsmith’s other qualifications were so sterling that the detail of a few unfinished courses seemed quite trivial.”

None of this was technically true, of course—the hardest thing Crystal had ever learned was how to walk in five-inch heels—but Mrs. McLeod knew she had to keep Baxter from leaving before Jimmy got there. She was pretty much making it up as she went. She wasn’t surprised to discover the curly-haired housewife didn’t believe her.

“Oh come now, Madam,” she sneered, “do you really expect me to believe that that”—she paused, looking for a word—“that bimbo has a master’s degree!“

Mrs. McLeod was not a good liar. She could feel herself blushing. Fortunately, before she could dig herself in any deeper there was a polite rapping at the door. “Ah, that will be Jimmy now,” the headmaster said, unable to hide her relief. “I’m sure he will be able to answer any of your remaining questions. Come in!”

The door opened and a student walked in. Mrs. McLeod jumped to her feet. “Lov—er, I mean, Mr. King, thank you for dropping by. I hope you aren’t missing a class.” She gestured toward her still-seated guest. “This is Mrs. Baxter,” she said, significantly. “She’s from the Board of Governors. She has a few questions about the, uh, academic environment here.”

“Mrs. Baxter. What a pleasure this is,” the young man said, extending a hand.

The svelte blonde was nonplussed. The fellow looked to be a senior. He was handsome in a bland way, medium tall and kind of gangly. Unlike the female student body he seemed to take the school uniform seriously. He was wearing the regulation jacket, tie and button-down white shirt. But she had not missed the excitement in Mrs. McLeod’s manner when he entered the room, nor the almost adoring way she was looking at him now.

Automatically, she rose to her feet and shook hands. “Delighted, Mr. King,” she said, in a voice designed to put youngsters in their place. “Now will somebody please explain to me what this boy is doing here? Do you let the students run the school now, headmaster?”

Mrs. McLeod ignored the sarcasm. “Jimmy is one of our scholarship students,” she said proudly, “and also chairs our new Student-Teacher Committee. We decided early last semester that a forum was needed for the exchange of views between students and faculty. It provides the students with an opportunity for real input into regulations that affect them, as opposed to the traditional, autocratic approach.”

The education-theory jargon came out easily. She had almost forgotten that the committee was originally Jimmy’s idea. He had even recommended the students and teachers that sat on it.

“You seem upset, Mrs. Baxter,” the lad said. He projected an easy self-confidence far beyond his years. “Why don’t you tell us exactly what is bothering you, and we’ll see if we can’t allay your concerns.” He pulled up a chair close beside the headmaster, sat down, and looked at the young blonde expectantly.

Mrs. Baxter was nearly speechless. The situation seemed unreal. Not only had the whole Academy turned into a travesty, but now a student was sitting behind the headmaster’s desk, calmly taking over an administrative discussion as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

This was too much. It was time to just walk out of here and go directly to the Board. She could pressure the chairman into calling an emergency meeting. When they heard her report this excuse of a headmaster would be out on her ear before sunrise. Something had to be done.

Yet she hesitated. There was something going on here, she was sure of that. This cocky, smooth-talking senior was the key to it all. She sat down. “Very well then,” she said archly, “perhaps the chair of the Student-Teacher Committee can explain how a miniskirted nitwit came to be teaching senior geography!”

But the teen only smiled. “You must be referring to Crystal Sexsmith. Her style is quite disarming, isn’t it? Don’t let her fool you though. Beneath that carefully cultivated little-girl image is a sharp and demanding mind. She is a born teacher, too. Her interview left us all stunned.” Not nearly as stunned as Crystal had been when she found out she was hired, but he didn’t say that.

Mrs. Baxter stared at the youngster in disbelief. He sounded absolutely serious. That barbie doll a natural born teacher? “Mrs. McLeod! Is this true?”

“What? Oh, uh, yes, uh certainly. Absolutely true,” the headmaster said, brushing back her hair. She was a little distracted at that moment because Jimmy had his hand on her knee, just below the hem of her skirt. He was lightly stroking the inside of her leg. His touch made it hard to concentrate on the conversation. She spread her legs a little wider.

Mrs. Baxter was taken aback. “Well I—I mean, you can’t honestly believe—very well, let’s let that go for a moment. There are many other things. How can you account for the bizarre goings-on in the physical education class?”

The corridors were mostly deserted by the time Mrs. Baxter left Crystal Sexsmith’s classroom. There did seem to be more noise than usual coming from the classrooms. She heard occasional bursts of laughter or shouting, and what sounded like . . . yes, it was definitely music coming from the gymnasium. It was lively dance music, with a pulsing rhythm. The trim blonde’s heels clicked on the tile floor as she made her way to the gym.

She opened one of the big wooden doors a crack and peered inside. The music was coming from four tower speakers arranged along the walls. There were about a dozen or so students in the gym, and a taller woman who must be the teacher. But this was not an ordinary gym class.

For one thing, the girls were not wearing the regulation blue top and shorts that Lovebright students always wore to gym. These girls were dressed in bright blue leotards and sleek white leggings, blue ankle socks and high-topped, white shoes. The stretchy, spandex outfits flattered pert young figures and well-turned legs.

The girls were doing some kind of aerobic exercise, stretching and dancing to the music. Their supple, easy movements suggested ample practice. The exercises were unconventional; at times they involved bending and turning at the waist, arms overhead and breasts thrust forward, at other times slow graceful steps and pirouettes like ballerinas, high on the toes of their fancy shoes.

Then the music dropped to a sensual, pulsing beat. The girls began doing in-place exercises. They thrust their hips forward on one beat, then bent over and thrust out their behinds on the next. They seemed to be having a great time. Basketballs and other gym equipment sat unused in a pile in one corner.

Trying to ignore both the infectious beat of the music and the blatantly sexy movements of the girls, Mrs. Baxter studied the instructor. She was the only person in the room not dressed in leotards. Instead she wore a white, sleeveless tennis dress trimmed with blue stripes. Her silvery white tennis shoes were tied up with wide blue ribbons instead of laces.

She was young, and impossibly well-built. Large, buoyant breasts and long, athletic legs burst out of the tiny rag of a dress. Lustrous black hair flowed freely down past her shoulders. Her smile was radiant as she strolled among the students, correcting a misplaced arm here, encouraging a bigger stretch there. She was wearing big hoop earrings patterned in blue and white, and matching bracelets on both arms.

What in the world was going on? Mrs. Baxter peered in through the gym door and watched the girls go through their well-practised routine. There was a compelling harmony in their movements. The whole class stretched and bent together like a chorus line. Many of the leotards were quite skimpy along the bustline and around the bum. When the girls bent over to touch their toes the gym was filled with bouncing breasts and bobbing behinds.

It was hard to tell from the door, but the girls didn’t appear to be wearing anything beneath the leotards. They straightened slowly, following the sensuous tones of the music, drawing their hands up their legs and over their torsos.

Mrs. Baxter drew in her breath. She found one hand mimicking the girls’ movements. She forced it to stop.

“What in god’s name are you teaching these girls in gym class!” Mrs. Baxter exclaimed, glaring first at the headmaster, then at the student beside her. “Why aren’t they learning basketball or field hockey or gymnastics? Why, that wasn’t even proper aerobics. Those . . . movements the girls were doing were practically obscene. It was like they were practising to be bawdy dancers! Mrs. McLeod, I demand an explanation!”

“Ex—explanation?” the headmaster gasped, her eyes darting about. “Yes, I can, ooooh, yes, I—I can . . . uhm, explain . . . oh! . . . explain . . . .” Jimmy’s hand was now above the middle of her thigh. The curvy headmaster was finding it increasingly difficult to focus on the conversation. Her skirt was rucked up around her hips. Jimmy was deftly stroking her stocking-covered inner thigh, moving a little higher with every pass.

He was being terribly naughty, teasing her at a time like this. Mrs. McLeod couldn’t bring herself to try to stop him. Jimmy’s touch was always such a turn-on. With a few strokes he could render her weak-kneed and helpless.

Mrs. McLeod spread her legs apart as far as the tight skirt would let her. She wished he would let her wear minis, like the other teachers. Jimmy said she had to present a more conservative image to the public. She grudgingly agreed he was right. She compensated by wearing the wildest underwear she could find.

“I think I understand your misapprehension,” Jimmy interrupted smoothly. His hand was still busy behind the desk. “That would surely be Miss Libertina’s class. She has introduced a new concept in isometric exercise, blending together, as I understand it, diverse elements from aerobics, modern dance, ballet and even tai chi. The result is an effective, low-impact routine that works the muscles while simultaneously teaching balance, poise and rhythm. She explained it to us one evening at a Student-Teacher Committee meeting.”

For a moment Mrs. Baxter was dumbfounded. That explanation was so bizarre it almost made sense. She ignored the headmaster, who was bouncing and twitching in her seat, and concentrated her anger on Jimmy. “Do you mean to tell me,” she said in measured tones, “that those “exercises” the girls were doing were intended as instruction?”

Jimmy smiled. “Absolutely. Though of course traditional sports have not been abandoned. In fact, our new football team is doing rather well, considering the small pool of talent we have to draw on.”

Part of the football team’s success was probably due to the success of Lovebright’s large and energetic cheerleading squad at distracting the opposing teams, both during games and beforehand. Again Jimmy let the details pass. Ms Libertina was also the cheerleading coach. She applied her new dance ideas to their routines as well. In fact, Ms Libertina had been a professional cheerleader, and a pole dancer, herself until very recently.

“Football,” said Mrs. Baxter blankly. It figured, she conceded with a sigh. There were men in the school now. But what about the women’s field hockey team?

“If I may ask you one question,” the student prodded her gently, “if you were curious about the aerobics program, why didn’t you just ask Ms Libertina? She is very enthusiastic about it.”

Actually, enthusiastic didn’t quite cover it. Since the idea had occurred to her at a Student-Teacher meeting, the statuesque gym instructor had gradually become obsessed with the new dance routines. Eventually they had pushed all the traditional sports off the curriculum. The girls too had grown to love the exercises, and their clingy spandex uniforms.

For once Mrs. Baxter hesitated. “Well, I . . . the fact is, I, well, I never got the chance. I mean, I’m here to do an inspection, and I can’t go around interrupting every class.” In truth, she had been very reluctant to enter the gymnasium. There was something subtly captivating about the dance the girls were doing. The rich young housewife was surprised to find herself getting warm just watching them. As she was getting warm right now just remembering them.

She shifted in her chair. “Besides, young man,” she said more firmly, “we still have other things to discuss. Much more serious things. Like openly lewd behaviour in the corridors of the Academy!” She raised her voice dramatically.

Closing the door to the gymnasium, Mrs. Baxter hurried on down the hall until the catchy beat of the music faded. She fluffed up her hair, trying to regain her composure. In the relative silence of the hall she could make out whispered voices coming from a narrow side corridor. Curious, she turned to find them. There should not have been any students about. Lovebright’s traditional strict discipline forbade students to be out of classrooms or the library during school hours.

The corridor lead to a narrow back staircase. It was one of many such byways and alcoves in the complex architecture of the old building. Walking on tiptoe, Mrs. Baxter approached the voices. There were two students standing beneath the staircase, where old stuffed chairs and sofas were stacked up for storage.

The pair were seniors, by the look of them. The boy was tall and dark blonde, with hair too long for the regulations. He wore the uniform shirt and pants without a tie. His jacket was thrown over a chair.

The girl was a leggy brunette whose interpretation of the school uniform included a kilt that couldn’t have been more than fifteen inches long. She wore it above sky-blue stockings with dark stripes up the legs. Her shiny black shoes had thick platform soles and heels that towered like skyscrapers. Instead of a blouse she wore a thin white jersey with the bottom buttons unfastened to show her navel.

The couple were locked in a heady embrace. As the school inspector watched, unnoticed, they kissed and necked hungrily.

The girl seemed to be protesting something. “Tommy, please,” she murmured, when he finally let her up for air, “we can’t. I have to . . . get to class . . . shouldn’t even . . . out here . . . .” The pauses grew longer as Tommy silenced her with kisses. Each kiss was more eagerly accepted than the one before.

“Hey, relax Leanne, you know I can get you a pass,” Tommy whispered. He sprinkled kisses down her throat and neck. “And besides Ms Winsome never checks attendance anymore. We have the whole period to ourselves.” He had one hand on her back, and the other near the bottom of her tiny skirt.

The girl was flushed. “But what if, what if somebody sees us!” she whispered. She was trying, half-heartedly and unsuccessfully, to keep his hands at bay.

“Nobody will see us. Nobody ever comes back here. And they’re all in class anyway.” He kissed her again, long and thoroughly, while they pressed their bodies together. In the hall Mrs. Baxter watched from the hall, shocked and fascinated.

The pretty co-ed was rapidly losing ground. “God Tommy,” she husked, when their lips separated an inch, “You’re making me so hot. Please, we have to . . .” He covered her lips with his, pulling her closer. As they necked, his hand slipped off her miniskirt and onto one nylon-clad thigh. The girl made a small sound deep in her throat. Following Tommy’s urging she lifted her leg and wrapped it around him. She pressed herself against his thrusting hips.

“Tommy,” Leanne panted at last, her eyes half-closed. “You’re driving me crazy. Please, oh god, wait, oooooh, not theerrre . . . .” His hand disappeared under her skirt. He turned her around adroitly and began to lower her onto one of the old sofas. “Please, Tommy,” she whimpered, “please hurrrry!”

From her vantage point in the hall, Mrs. Baxter watched, spellbound. They were actually going to do it! They were about to have sex, right here in the school! Too stunned to move, the well-heeled blonde watched as the young couple collapsed onto an unused sofa, still clinched in an eager embrace.

Most of the sofa was hidden from view by the staircase, so Mrs. Baxter could only see the bottom of their legs. It wasn’t hard to infer what was happening though. Leanne’s sexy legs were rubbing against Tommy’s on top, amid much snuffling and groaning. Tommy’s ankles arched for a moment. Then his pants and shorts appeared around his calves, pushed down eagerly by Leanne’s delicate hands.

Evidently her underwear wasn’t a significant issue, because a moment later Mrs. Baxter heard a sharp, feminine cry, followed by a sigh of, “Oh yesssss!” She could tell by the up and down movements of Tommy’s legs that he must be thrusting his hips. Leanne’s striped stockings glistened as she humped back.

The chorus of moans and mews grew louder. Suddenly Leanne’s platform shoes lifted high in the air and then disappeared. Mrs. Baxter realized that she must have crossed her legs around his back. This was no teary romantic encounter: this was a rut.

Mrs. Baxter leaned back against the wall. She abruptly realized she was breathing hard. The sounds of vigorous love-making were still spilling out from the stairwell.

What should she do? This was intolerable behaviour. They should both be expelled. But she couldn’t just walk in and interrupt them, not while they were . . . not right in the middle of . . .

God she was hot. She ran her hand around her neck, beneath her collar. She imagined what Leanne must be feeling right then, pinned on the deep sofa with a hard, vibrant specimen of youthful virility thrusting into her. She would be pressing her breasts against his chest; her nipples would be hard and swollen, like Mrs. Baxter’s were now.

She shuddered, and shook her head to clear the fog of arousal. She had to get away from here! With a sharp exhalation she turned her back on the cries and moans and creaking of springs coming from the staircase. She stumbled down the corridor back to the relative tranquillity of the main hall.