The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Richie Unger stepped off the B12 bus and hurried down the street toward the McKenney Gymnasium.

It was funny, he thought as he trotted briskly along. He’d never have guessed, back—how long was it?—three months ago? Four? Anyway, back when he’d allowed his friend Bill DeWitt to drag him to an exercise class—that he’d end up going regularly.

It helped that after that first class, when he’d clearly been unable to keep up, the instructor, Ms. Barron, had taken pity on him and invited him to try an easier class. He grinned sheepishly. It didn’t hurt, either, that Katrina Barron was a gorgeous redhead, or that for some reason, she seemed to like him.

By now he’d gotten used to the idea that after each exercise session, she invited him back to a private room for coffee and talk. What he hadn’t gotten used to were the daydreams he so often had during those little chats: daydreams of hot, sweaty sex with the well-endowed exercise trainer. He’d never dared mention them to her, or to anyone else, either—they were a guilty pleasure, a secret reward for his sometimes painful efforts at getting into shape.

And he was getting into shape. The exercises he’d once had to struggle to do came easily now, and some actual muscle had begun to pack onto his lean frame. Last time, Ms. Barron had said he’d be ready soon to join the intermediate class Bill was in, the class whose workout had been too much for him that first time.

The only thing was, he didn’t seem to be doing as well in school as he had been. He’d been halfway through his fall semester as a junior at Penner University when he’d started going to the training, and doing well, just as he’d always done—but since then, his grades had been slipping. Partly, he guessed, it was the time he was putting in exercising instead of studying. But there was more to it than that. Even when he was home, he just didn’t seem to be able to focus on his classwork as well as before.

Aw, hell, Richie told himself, who cares? I’m still doing okay. So what if my grades’re down a little?

As he approached the gym, Richie remembered to move his transit card from his shirt pocket to his wallet. He’d forgotten once, and lost it. Not for the first time, he wondered idly why it was he never drove over; his car might not be as flashy as Bill’s SUV, but it was perfectly serviceable. Somehow, though, it never occurred to him to use it to get to and from Ms. Barron’s class; he just automatically took a bus.

Just as he always did when he thought about that, he put it out of his mind almost immediately. What could it possibly matter, after all?

As usual, right after the exercise session, Ms. Barron asked to speak with him in private. By now, everyone in the class had noticed her habit of doing so. Nobody said anything, though; a couple of guys who’d made comments in the past had been unceremoniously kicked out.

As he allowed his instructor to lead him off, Richie shook his head. It wasn’t as if anything was actually going on, besides coffee and talk. Well, there were the daydreams, of course—the youth flushed a bit—but they didn’t count. They weren’t real, even though more and more he wished they were; besides, he hadn’t told anyone about them.

He supposed he could say no when Ms. Barron asked him. After all, their little meetings made him look like the teacher’s pet at the very least. But he was already following her into the coffee lounge. Maybe next time, he told himself. He sat down and relaxed as Katrina made the coffee, and took the cup she offered him.

Katrina Barron smiled as she gently pried the cup from Richie Unger’s loose grip. She studied him for a moment. Yes, he was progressing nicely. And not just in regard to building up his muscles; she’d been planting suggestions about other things, too. Richie’s hair was neatly combed, and he was wearing new high-index glasses whose thinner lenses magnified the glazed eyes behind them far less than his old ones had. It was surprising how much handsomer those small changes made him.

But now to business.

“Richie?” she asked softly. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes, Katrina,” the blond young man answered softly. “I . . . hear you.”

“You’re relaxed, aren’t you, Richie,” Katrina purred. “Relaxed, the way you always relax when we come in here for our little talks. Relaxed, and obedient to me. Isn’t that right, Richie?”

“Yes, Katrina.” It was a mumble. “Relaxed. Obedient. Like . . . always.”

“That’s a good boy, Richie. That’s a very good boy.” The exercise trainer smiled wickedly as she sat in Richie’s lap and spoke once more: “You know what happens next, don’t you, Richie, sweetie?”

Richie did. His hands came up, caressing Katrina’s breasts and then moving to unfasten the exercise halter she had on. As soon as it did, Katrina reached up and began unbuttoning his shirt. . . .

Very soon, both of them were naked. Katrina got to her feet, and Richie followed her, eager and fiercely erect. As he stood, she addressed him: “Richie, I want you to close your eyes for a minute and imagine yourself picking me up and carrying me, yes, picking me up in your strong arms and carrying me over to the couch. Picture it, Richie, make it real in your mind, Richie. Do you see it now?”

Eyes shut, Richie murmured, “Yes, Katrina. I . . . see it.” He moved toward her voice, arms raised as if to act out the scene in his mind.

Katrina stopped him with a gentle hand on one bicep. “Not yet, Richie.” The arms went down. “You’re not ready yet.” He wasn’t; he was clearly stronger than he had been, but not that much stronger. Not yet. “Just keep that image in your mind, Richie, and keep working out, until you’re ready. Now open your eyes, Richie, and come to me.”

Richie opened his eyes and came to Katrina. He leaned into her, pushing her down onto the soft cushions of the couch. Her thighs came up, clamping around him, and her arms snaked around his back, fingernails digging in as their bodies thrust together.

Richie’s conditioning was coming along nicely in sexual matters, too. His body obeyed the promptings of Katrina’s own as that of a racehorse might respond to its rider, pumping and thrusting in a rhythm the redhead controlled completely. They came together with stunning force.

A minute or so later, Katrina flipped the two of them so that she was on top and began riding her blond steed toward another climax. When it came, she slumped atop Richie, her large, soft breasts mashing into his face.

After a minute or so, she became aware that he was making small distressed noises. She shifted, and Richie emitted a loud gasp.

Katrina laughed. “Poor boy,” she said in a teasing tone. “I’ve been smothering you, haven’t I. Naughty, naughty!”

She sat up, still straddling Richie as he lay limp on the cushions. Bracing herself with one sharp-nailed hand against his chest, she looked down at him.

It was time, she decided, to step up his physical conditioning a bit. Not with steroids—their psychological effects might sabotage his obedience training—but there were other ways.

“Richie,” Katrina said, her voice gentle, “listen to me. Listen to Katrina.” Blue eyes opened and focused woozily on bobbing globes of flesh. Katrina laughed. “Look at my face, sweetie, look at my face and listen carefully.”

Richie obeyed. Katrina continued: “Very soon it will be time for you to go home, Richie. Before you do, though, I need to give you some instructions. You’ll obey those instructions, Richie, won’t you? Because I’m giving them to you, and you trust me completely.”

“Instructions,” Richie repeated. “Obey . . . because I trust you . . . completely.”

“You’ve been coming along well, Richie honey,” Katrina informed the youth pinned under her. “But you need to work harder. You need to exercise more.”

“Mnnnh?” It was as close as Richie could come to questioning the woman who ruled him now.

“Yes, work harder, exercise more,” Katrina went on. “I know you like to read and study, Richie. You like to get good grades. You’re a good boy. But Richie, exercise is more important. Exercise comes first, Richie, from now on. Say it.”

“Exercise is more important . . . than studying,” parroted Richie. “Exercise comes first . . . from now on.”

The trainer’s skillful hands roved over Richie’s flesh, drawing helpless gasps of enjoyment from him. “Exercise means pleasure, Richie, exercise means ecstasy. Exercise means sex with me, honey. Studying and book learning don’t make you feel like this, do they, sweetie?”

“Nnggghh!“ Richie’s body flexed as pleasure rippled through it. “No. They—they don’t.”

“All right, then, sweetie,” cooed Katrina. “Now it’s time to go home. Remember, Richie, remember that when you leave here, you must remember what we’ve done here tonight only as a fantasy. And you must not remember me giving you instructions, at all, Richie. But even though you don’t remember me giving you those instructions, you must obey them, Richie, because I gave them to you for your own good and you trust me completely.”

“Yes, Katrina,” Richie sighed happily.

As she’d done so many times already, Katrina got Richie Unger back into his clothes and dressed herself, then sent the college student away. After he’d left, however, she hugged herself with glee.

There had been no Yes in Richie’s coffee this time. She had left it out to see whether his conditioning had reached the point where merely accepting a cup of coffee from her and drinking it would put him under. And it had! Even though Richie was unaware, consciously, that he’d ever been drugged, his brain itself had done the narcotic’s work when given that simple cue.

It always excited her when one of her subjects crossed this threshold. It meant that finally she was in direct control, not merely working through the drug. Oh, she’d still need to dose Richie from time to time, at least until her molding of his body and mind had been completed—but even so, he had surrendered to her at a fundamental level.

And he didn’t even suspect. . . .

Katrina Barron smirked. Her brother Peter was famous as a sculptor, and looked down on her. She, however, reshaped human minds as well as bodies, rather than mere stone. She wondered what he’d say if he knew.

I’ll have to tell him someday, she resolved. Or better yet, show him. Her lips curved up.

Richie Unger grunted as he lifted the heavy barbell. Finally he got it over his head. Teeth gritted, he held it there for several seconds before carefully lowering it.

He toweled sweat off himself and looked around his dorm room. It was far more cluttered now than it had been even a few weeks ago. He’d bought a bunch of workout equipment; besides the barbell set, he had pulleys, a stationary bicycle, and various other items. He was spending more and more time exercising instead of studying, and it showed. He was getting some real muscles. He flexed a bicep, grinning at the bulge that appeared where, not so long ago, there’d been nothing to speak of. With his shirt off, he could see that his torso was beginning to take on a noticeably tapered look. After so long as a scrawny nerd, he liked the new look.

Unfortunately, his change of focus was showing in other ways, too. Richie’s grin turned to a scowl. His grades were still going down. If he didn’t pull them up soon, he’d be put on warning. He’d managed to snow Dad and Mom so far, but when they found out, there’d be hell to pay.

He knew he should be worried about that, but somehow it didn’t seem to matter. Studying didn’t make him feel as good as working out did. Exercise was more important; it came first.

Richie’s watch buzzed. Startled, he looked at it—was it that time already?

Sure enough, it was: time to head out for the bus. He had Ms. Barron’s class tonight, and he didn’t want to be late.

Katrina Barron swept her eyes over her elementary exercise class as she led her students through their usual routines. Except for one or two, they were doing nicely. She enjoyed knowing she was helping them improve themselves.

Her eyes lingered for a moment on Richie Unger. He had become her star pupil. He really should be moved to a more advanced class, she thought; he was ready now. Thanks to the suggestions she’d given him during their many private after-class sessions, he’d been driving himself hard even when he wasn’t here in class, something most of the others didn’t do. The female in her enjoyed watching as his newly defined musculature flowed smoothly through the calisthenics everyone was doing.

And he was getting better at other exercises, too, ones outside the standard curriculum. She smothered a giggle. Under her . . . special coaching, Richie was becoming quite practiced at sex. Not that he knew it, of course: as far as he was aware, he was still the virgin he’d been when they’d first met.

Katrina ended the class with the usual cool-down routine. Then, as usual, she beckoned to Richie to accompany her.

In the seclusion of the little coffee lounge she used as her private playground, she looked Richie over carefully and spoke. “Richie,” she said, “how would you like to move on to the next level?”

“Um,” Richie answered hesitantly, “what do you mean, Katrina?”

The exercise trainer laughed, tossing her head. “You make it sound so sinister, Richie! I mean the next level of my workout course, naturally, the intermediate class your friend—Bill, isn’t it?—is in.”

“Do you really think I’m ready?” Richie sounded nervous.

“Oh, yes, I think so, Richie,” the redhead responded as she handed him a steaming china cup. She sipped at her own beverage as Richie drank.

Moments later, she took Richie’s cup from his unresisting hand. This evening, she’d put a dose of Yes in it, as she still did every so often even though he was now well conditioned to go under even without it. She set the cup aside carefully and addressed the blond young man who was now staring dreamily into space across from her.

Tonight, just as she’d told Richie, she intended to graduate him to the next level. But not just the next higher exercise class. No, she had something more in mind. First, though, she had a few questions to ask.

“Richie, sweetie,” she began, “how are things going for you?”

“How are . . . things going?” The college student didn’t seem to understand the question. Katrina cursed silently—of course he didn’t understand. In his drug-induced stupor, his higher faculties were suppressed. She had to be more specific. You’d think I’d have learned that, after all this time, she scolded herself.

She started over. “You know exercising is very important, Richie, more important than studying or reading. More important than anything, except trusting your Katrina and doing what she tells you to do. Have you been working out at home the way you’re supposed to, Richie?”

“Yes, Katrina,” came the answer. The redhead hadn’t really doubted it, but that question set her toy boy up for the next one. “That means you’ve been studying less, Richie, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, Katrina,” murmured the blond youth. “Studying less. So I can . . . exercise more.”

“What about your grades, honey? What’s happening to them?”

Richie frowned slightly as he responded. “Going down . . . they’re going down.” He hesitated. “If they keep going down . . . I’m going to get in . . . trouble.”

Katrina came over and sat in Richie’s lap. One of his arms came up, encircling her waist, as she stroked his hair and said, “That doesn’t matter, Richie. All that matters is building yourself up, making yourself stronger and more athletic for me.”

The frown disappeared. “Yes, Katrina.”

“You’re a healthy young man, Richie,” Katrina told him. “You don’t need all that book learning. You don’t need to be smart, if you’re strong, and muscular, and good-looking, Richie. You can let all that go, sweetie, forget about thinking and learning.”

“Yes. . . .” Richie nodded slowly. “Forget about thinking and learning.”

Katrina drove the lesson home with her next question. “You’re in college, Richie. You must have seen how all the beautiful girls go for the good-looking, muscular jocks, even if the guys are dumb. That’s what women want, Richie: handsome athletic dumb studs. You know that, don’t you, Richie, honey?” Certainly, she thought, it was what she wanted!

“Yes, Katrina.” There was a trace of bitterness in Richie Unger’s voice now. “I know that.”

Katrina Barron laughed deep in her throat. Her young lover’s buried personal resentments made him all the easier to manipulate. “And you want them to want you, don’t you? You want all those girls to want you.”

“Yes, Katrina.” The words came from deep within the college student. “I want them to . . . want me.” His cock stirred under the woman sitting on his lap, and she smiled at the sensation.

“Well, that’s what we’re here for, sweetie. To make you the kind of guy those girls will want.” Katrina ran her fingers through Richie’s hair. Her nails tickled his scalp, and he shivered with mindless pleasure. “We’re going to make you strong, and muscular, and handsome, Richie.”

“Strong,” Richie slurred. “Musc’lar. Han’ . . . some.” He was drifting. It felt wonderful to drift, and just enjoy the feeling of Katrina’s cushiony body sitting on his lap, her fingers stroking his hair, her voice explaining everything without his having to think about it. His erection grew larger.

“But remember, Richie, that the guys women want aren’t just athletic. They’re dumb, too, aren’t they, Richie?”

“Yes. Dumb.” The resentment was back.

“So Richie, if you want them to want you, you have to be dumb too.”

“Dumb . . . too?” Richie’s eyes opened slightly and tried to focus. Some basic survival instinct seemed to be trying to assert itself, to resist a suggestion threatening to the youth’s basic personality.

Well, there were ways of dealing with that. “That’s right, Richie,” Katrina instructed the blond boy beneath her. “The stronger you get, the more muscular and athletic you get, the harder it will be for you to study, or even remember what you’ve learned already, sweetie. It’s already happening, isn’t it, Richie? You’ve told me your grades are slipping.”

“Uh . . . yes.”

“But you don’t care,” the exercise trainer went on. “Let them slip. It’s all right to let them slip, to let yourself forget all that silly book stuff. It’s all right not to think so hard, not to be smart, if you’re strong and muscular and good-looking, the way I’m helping you to be.” Her free hand stole to Richie’s crotch, stroking him, making him shudder.

Richie gasped, “It’s . . . nnhh . . . all right. Uhnnn. N-not to be . . . s-s-smarrrhht.“ As Katrina’s fingers manipulated his balls and penis, the pleasure helped manipulate his mind. He was powerless against that pleasure, powerless to keep the redhead’s insidious suggestions from infiltrating his brain while the pleasure shivered through him.

Katrina licked her lips. Richie’d had enough new programming for tonight. Now it was time for her favorite form of reinforcement.

“Rich-ie,” she teased. Still tickling the college boy’s balls with one hand, she used the other to start unbuttoning the short-sleeved shirt he had on. ”Rich-ie, it’s so hot in here. I’m so hot. Aren’t you hot too?”

Richie groaned. Fresh sweat popped out on his face. His hands came up and began working at Katrina’s clothes.

The pair, still seated together in Richie’s chair, got each other half nude before the trainer stood up and got her stupefied student to his feet to complete the process. At last they stood naked amid discarded garments.

Katrina looked Richie over thoughtfully. My, my, she said to herself, he’s come a long way since we first met. Giggling, she made a playful suggestion: “Richie, dear, why don’t you pick me up and carry me to the couch?”

Richie, lost in his private drug-spawned dreamland, obeyed, bending to lift Katrina. His new muscles strained under their soft, warm load of flesh. He staggered over to the couch.

Katrina had been prepared to catch herself if Richie hadn’t been able, after all, to carry her—but he made it, barely, dropping her onto the cushions with a gasp. Before he could straighten up, she extended one leg, caressing his groin with her foot. Eyes crossing, Richie climbed onto her. Katrina graphed him firmly with her muscular thighs and calves and began to rock.

Even if he hadn’t been drugged out of his mind, Richie would have been powerless to control himself after that. There were no thoughts whatever in his mind as he lowered himself onto her and thrust deeply, again and again, his motion controlled by his partner’s. At last Katrina shuddered ecstatically and cried out arching her back, throwing her head back and clenching around him, and he came, bright lights pinwheeling behind his tightly-shut eyes as he heaved and emptied himself into her. Then, spent, he collapsed, his weight pressing her into the soft couch cushions even more firmly than it had.

Still breathing heavily, Katrina stroked Richie’s hair gently and murmured, ”Good boy. . . .”

She paused, thinking, before going on. “Richie, from now on, you’ll be attending my intermediate class. When you leave here, you will remember us having coffee as usual, and you’ll remember me telling you that you’ve been promoted to the intermediate class. You’ll attend all the sessions of that class, from now on, Richie, won’t you?”

“Yes, Katrina,” emerged in a sleepy mumble.

“Good boy, Richie,” the redhead repeated. “We’ll continue to have our little after-class sessions, Richie”—the youth sighed happily, and Katrina smiled—“and each time, as always, you’ll clearly remember having coffee with me, and you’ll recall our having sex only as wonderful daydreams you that you’ll do anything to have more of—but that you mustn’t reveal to anyone else. Do you understand, Richie, and will you do all this for me?”

“Yes, Katrina,” murmured Richie, the words indistinct as he spoke with his mouth pressed to the hollow of the trainer’s neck. “Understand. . . .”

“Good boy, Richie,” Katrina said once more. She stroked her sleepy student gently, enjoying the feel of his flesh and fine blond hair under her fingers. She relaxed, basking in the afterglow, as the sweat steamed off her body and Richie’s.

A few minutes later, Katrina finished as usual, getting herself and Richie dressed and sending him on his way. After his departure, she sat quietly for a few minutes, facing the door with a satisfied smile. Richie really was making excellent progress, she observed silently. He would never have been able to lift and carry her when they’d first met. Oh, there was still plenty of room for improvement, but things were coming along nicely.

And not only on the physical side. Her remolding of her plaything’s mind was working as well. True, Richie was still too intelligent for her taste—but already, according to what he’d confessed to her, that was changing. The suggestions she’d made tonight would speed things up, and she’d keep working on him. Soon enough, he’d be just what she wanted him to be, what she preferred all her men to be: strong, sexy, submissive and stupid.

Richie slammed the phone down with a bang.

He’d dreaded this phone call. His third-quarter marks were way down. He’d told his parents he was studying as hard as he could, but that hadn’t satisfied his father. “Why the fuck am I paying for your college if you’re going to screw around like this?” the older man had yelled. Richie, stung, had snapped off an angry retort—he didn’t even remember what he’d said—and it had been all downhill from there. Both he and his dad had been screaming by the time Mr. Unger had hung up on him.

It could’ve been worse, reflected the college student. I could’ve told my old man how I’ve really been spending my time. Charles Unger had been working in construction for twenty-five years. It was a well-paid job, but he’d wanted something more for his son. Richie knew his father would have really exploded if he’d found out Richie had been ditching his classes and blowing off studying in order to exercise.

Richie looked down at himself. One thing you could say: all the working out was working. He flexed a bicep and grinned, his anger fading.

He looked at the books and papers scattered over and around his desk, out of the way of the exercise equipment, which took up a lot of his dorm room’s floor space now, and groaned. He really ought to work on it. . . . He picked up two small barbells, one for each hand. Maybe after just a little warmup.

An hour later, he dismounted the stationary bicycle set up across the room from his bed. He’d gone from the small weights to larger ones, then taken a turn on the pulleys, before ending up on the bike. He forced himself to sit down at the desk.

It was a nightmare. He was totally lost. The material didn’t even seem to make sense! He found himself repeatedly forced to go to his textbooks’ indexes, and even, once or twice, to the dictionary, just to get through the reading—and even then, he couldn’t seem to absorb it.

Idly, he picked up one of his leftover books from the first quarter. Back then, he’d been doing great. He thumbed through the text, scanning its content. After a few minutes, eyes wide and head throbbing, he put it down. Even the old stuff, the stuff I know I knew, doesn’t register anymore, he moaned silently. What’s happening to me?

Years ago, he’d watched this movie on TV—Charly, that was the title—about this guy who’d been turned from a moron to a genius in a scientific experiment. Late in the film, the character had begun losing his new brainpower. The idea of slowly sliding down to stupidity had spooked Richie. Now it seemed to be happening to him for real!

Strangely, it didn’t seem to matter. Richie stretched in his chair and flexed his muscles again. He’d never felt better in his life—or looked better, either. He smiled; he’d noticed girls were starting to pay attention to him now, as they never had before. He was still too shy to really do anything about it, but—well, who knew? If things kept on the way they were going, maybe he’d be able to. He seemed to be turning into someone they found attractive. Yeah, that’s me, a regular jock stud.

Richie pushed back his chair and got up, massaging his aching head with one hand. What he needed was a little more exercise, he decided. Yeah, that was the ticket: just a little something to work the kinks out.

He went back to the pulleys. His books stayed where they were, untouched and forgotten.

Richie got off the bus and headed for the gymnasium. It was funny, he thought, how after all this time he was still using the bus rather than either driving over in his car, or—now that they were in the same workout session—riding over with Bill.

He frowned, diverted. He and Bill weren’t seeing much of each other these days, outside of Ms. Barron’s class. He just didn’t seem to have the time for socializing, any more than he had time to study; it would cut into his exercise time. It was too bad, but all that really mattered was making himself stronger and more athletic for Ms. Barron.

Richie blushed faintly, glad he wasn’t where anyone would notice. His daydreams about the beautiful exercise trainer had kept right on; if anything, they’d gotten more intense. Somewhere in the back of his mind lurked the hope that if only he could build himself up enough, she’d give him the chance to bring those vivid visions to life.

Of course, that was ridiculous. Someone like her would never screw around with someone like him. It was stupid even to think about it.

He put it out of his mind and hurried toward the gym. He didn’t want to be late for class.