The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

In the depths of the Cold War, espionage agents of many countries took advantage of whatever tools were available. I knew a bit about if from reading and from talking with a friend named Dean who had traveled the world since the late 1960’s, and could still share little of what he had done. In my friend’s case, I learned that his training included the skills developed at the School of Social Expression out in Marin County. Of course, readers of the Mind Control archives will recognize that as the cover name for the School for Sexual Expression. Recently he stopped by and shared these “now it can be told” recollections with me, a story that came back to him on a long plane ride to the more recent Denver economic summit.

Dean was on an airplane headed to Denver once again. This time, he told himself, the preparations had all been made, and it was time for the big show—the Summit Conference. He found himself wondering what all the preparations had been. The FBI and the State Department and the Secret Service were taking care of all the big stuff. His underfunded agency was out of the loop.

On his mental index cards, Dean reviewed his resource people for this assignment. He would be working with the “unimportant” people: Val and Deborah at the B&B might be able to help; Tony, the young man who I had introduced Dean to and his girlfriend from the park, maybe. I was not available then. He could count on his French colleague and one-time lover Michelle, but what if she was ordered elsewhere? He was heading into unknown problems, without much help.

What about the Lepenistes lurking around the scene? He had figured out that they were up to more than trying to stop Michelle from setting up a link with his agency against their penetration of her bureau. He knew pieces of their activities, and a chance encounter had opened his eyes to more of what they were doing out in California. None of that fit together, though. Too many cards lay face down on the imaginary table.

Dean let his mind float away from the immediate, sticky problem. His seat mates were two bubbly young Asian women, students on their way to get established for university classes in Denver. They had barely noticed him, being caught up in their own conversation—and giggles. They reminded him of an incident years ago, and as he was dead-ended with the mental files, he continued free-associating, finding that to be relaxing. What were their names? The names in his recollection, not the names of the two students beside him; he fished around for them.

Atka. Atka! That was the name of the one with the bright imagination. She was the plainer of the two, physically, but he had quickly spotted her as the sharper of the pair of Mongolian students he had met in Moscow in 1974. He could not think of her friend’s name, although he could visualize her cute smile and curvy figure.... and the rosy spread of the blush from her cheeks. Atka’s friend was used to being the center of attention without much effort.

They were in the library when he met them together. He had seen Atka’s friend before, as she worked there, and had enjoyed chatting with her. It was clear that she was used to having men want to talk with her, she just expected that. She was studying foreign languages at the university, and he was easily able to rationalize that his bosses would approve of him getting acquainted with her. Of course, he knew that it was a rationalization, but, on the other hand, in his world, any contact might pay off in the future.

That night, Atka had stopped by to chat. Her friend had introduced her to Dean. He had barely noticed her standing there at first, poised, but not obviously attractive the way that the woman behind the counter was. Then Dean noticed Atka’s eyes. Intense, flashing almost, they drew his attention from where it had rested on her friend’s shapely rear.

“I didn’t want to study, so I came down here!” she candidly answered when Dean asked whether she was working in the library also. It turned out that they were roommates, and that Atka did work in the library, too. This was not her shift, though, just a little break from her demanding Chemistry studies.

He could feel that the pair were intrigued by him, and he found that they were amused by his struggles with Russian. Atka suggested that if he found Russian difficult, he should try Mongolian! Her spirit appealed to Dean, and as he would be back to the library many times in his current “diplomatic” assignment, it seemed like a real opportunity to expand his knowledge. “Who knows?—Chto znaet?” as the Russians would say, he told himself, he might be able to use a snatch of that language in some future work. He turned so that he would face the two women head on.

“That seems like an opportunity for you two and for me, too. Your English is better than most Americans’, but everyone could use some touch-ups. But I don’t know how you could teach me much Mongolian. Do you have a suggestion?” He paced the plain, honest words with their breathing, thankful that his experience at the School for Sexual Expression allowed him to calmly watch their breasts rise and fall without getting an instant hard-on. In turn, they could feel comfortable with him, breathing subconsciously with him, relaxed even. Their faces flushed with warm excitement, although, of course, they were not thinking consciously of sex, but of education. Hopefully, according to Dean, their subconscious was taking their natural needs and enhancing his message.

“Perhaps one of you has a good idea... something fun” he began slowly, and enjoyed the sudden, darting sideways glances as each checked to see what the other was up to. Of course, each saw that on the surface the other was drifting into a pleasing state of euphoria, and that was so reassuring to their thoughts. Dean saw them relax further. In their subconscious minds, though, ancient images took focus, rivalries, needs, awareness that this powerful, confident male would naturally have his choice of women, and beneath that understanding, the urge each had to validate her own femininity, to be chosen as the dominant female. Dean watched as the conversation floated forward, and felt for the undercurrents carrying them all along.

Atka’s tongue darted over her lips as she rose to the challenge with words, as her friend drifted helplessly, wordlessly—used to having her beauty as her trump card.

“Why don’t we set up a regular meeting in our apartment? We’ll both be there, so it will be permissible. We can teach you many things.”

“Yes! That’s a wonderful idea.” Her friend came alive to the idea, turning slightly and presenting her breasts to Dean in a way that brought the bright stripes of a thoroughly un-Communist bra to show against her ordinary student’s white blouse. He felt a sense of relief that she had not done that before when he was inducing their interest, as it played hell with his concentration on developing the growing connection between them.

And so, having suggested the process which would bring them together, Atka ripped a corner off of a library bulletin page and wrote out the information for Dean. Just like a Russian, she wrote it in script that was beautiful but hard for him to read. He had to ask her to print out the Cyrillic characters, and they were interrupted by a couple of other library users who came to ask questions. Still, it was pleasing to note that she did not lose interest or forget her task. The idea had become her own, just as thoughts of one-upping her had become her friends’ own plan. He left the library with a light step and a rendezvous in his pocket.

Dean stirred in his grey and burgundy airplane seat, and found himself back in the present, thinking about how bright the colors were in 1974. The attractiveness of the young Mongolian’s well-filled bra, even with its bright colors, stuck in his mind. The two Asian women were quietly working together on a crossword puzzle. The plane droned on, the sound of muffled conversations reaching him without communicating any sense. One of the students triumphantly pounced on the puzzle sheet, and then both of them laughed with relief at a solution. Their shared enthusiasm, especially the sight of them puzzling over the crosswords, led Dean back to his pleasant recollections.

Dean’s lesson began so innocently, but the undercurrents between the two Mongolian friends remained. Their apartment was small, and so every movement became a kind of dance with one another. Atka’s friend had to sit on the bed, because there were only two chairs. Every so often, she stretched back, making some small comment about it being uncomfortable. Both Dean and Atka offered her their places, but she heroically said that she could get by. Stretching back, of course, showed off her figure in an artistic way. Dean caught a glimpse of Atka frowning at her roommate.

When Dean’s afternoon came for the first English lesson, he brought a special exercise. This would help him to determine what their needs were, he explained. It was a set of crossword puzzles that the two students could work together. He would just observe and see how they worked out the English conversation needed to complete their assignment.

It was outstanding, Dean recollected, how the crossword puzzles had brought them together. He had not been sure how it would work out—the printed cards were stamped on the back with the intricate holographic logo of the School for Social Expression. He had never used the cards before, just had heard a presentation on them in the school. Atka’s friend had picked one up and looked at it idly, flipping it back and forth to see the pattern changes. Dean had been pleased to note that she had begun to lose her train of thought as she tried to make sense of the almost hypnotic intertwining. He wondered if she had taken in enough of the subtle messages in the design. The more task-oriented Atka just noted that the backs of the cards were decorative, and turned them all face up to work on them.

Drawing her friend’s attention back to the crosswords, Atka led her through the exercise. Their fluency together with English was remarkable, Dean told himself. He had not falsely complimented them the other evening at the library. His remaining concern about the effectiveness faded as the two linked word after word, concept after concept. Words like “lace” and “seduction” occasionally intertwined with seemingly ordinary fillers like “notice” and “connect.” They chattered busily in English and Mongolian. “Daydream” crossed “desire” and “need” intersected with “myself.” Their speech began to take on a dreamy quality as they absorbed the concepts through their interaction. Then “wanton” penetrated through the center of “now.” Their conversation was stilled. Dean wanted to hold his breath, but instead he continued to pace the gentle movement of their chests. What was about to happen? Had they seen through it?

Atka paused, and picked up the cards, looking at their face sides intently. He could see the wheels going in her head—damn, he thought, she’s figured it out! For a moment he had to grip the chair to keep from fleeing the room. And then she began arranging and rearranging the cards.

“There is a pattern in these,” Atka murmured to her friend. After a few moments of shuffling the cards, she began laying them down on the table. Suddenly the hidden beauty of the cards came clear to Dean, and undoubtedly it was clear to Atka as an artistic feature in her conscious mind, and as a guide in her subconscious.

“Look, the words flow from one card to another to form a geometric pattern.” Dean glanced and then quickly looked away. It was the pattern of the School for Sexual Expressions logo, representing itself as the hypnotic intertwining of the bland School for Social Expression. Atka traced the patterns endlessly with her fingers, moving ever slower, until finally her hand hung motionless in the air. Her friend nodded as she watched, her eyes half-glazed over.

Dean touched Atka’s right hand gently, pushing it to rise toward her face.

“Your eyes are closing because you are so sleepy,” he suggested. When her hand touched her eye, she blinked and went out like a light.

Her friend had reached a certain point, but seemed to go no further. Dean scrambled mentally, and realized that she was not understanding enough of the English words to follow the intertwining concepts.

“You thought the back side of the cards was beautiful... now that Atka is asleep, you can look at them again.... she wanted to stop you, but now you can do it...” Dean intoned, and Atka’s friend recalled her interrupted look at the card. Atka had kept her from doing what felt like real fun. Smiling faintly, and picking one up, she twitched it back and forth in the light, slowly and more slowly.

“The more slowly you move, the better it gets...” Dean suggested, and her hands moved in smaller and smaller measures, until she stopped all together.

“If you look more closely at the card, look at the center of the symbol, you will find that you can pause and look into the beautiful dreams that are coming now.” He led her deeper into her trance, while noticing that this was a different effect than Atka’s showed. The symbol’s sexual suggestions were being deeply understood now, as the attractive young student’s nipples rose beneath her sweater. He watched her face flush with excitement, and her eyes dilate. She seemed unaware of her body’s preparations. A wave of warmth drew him toward her, but he steadied himself and went on.

Calm in their trances, they answered the standard School survey questions about their sexual experience and preparedness. Reflecting their society, they had little of either. Both were virgins.

The latter discovery gave Dean a start. He was not often asked to weigh the pros and cons of being a woman’s first. The plus side of the situation is that he could talk with each of them about it in an honest manner. Atka’s friend gave a high priority to being a virgin when she married, while Atka expressed herself ambivalently on the subject.

As their allotted time was coming to an end, Dean had to close their trances, shortening the process for the next time with their own trance words. He left them with the thought that through the week each should think about how they would have sex with him, and think further as to how they felt about potentially losing their maiden status.

When Dean returned for the next session, he climbed the creaking stairs in their poorly-maintained apartment building two or three at a time. He had put himself in the position of expecting something to happen, but not being sure what. He found that he was eager as a schoolboy.

Their apartment was spic and span when he entered. Fresh flowers had been placed in a bowl on the kitchen/dining room table. Books were neatly aligned on the shelves. Atka and her friend were just as scrubbed, and each was dressed in a simple white robe. Their figures showed nicely as they moved in the material.

“Atka did it...” giggled her friend when Dean asked who had been housekeeping. “She was a regular dust storm this past week.”

“No! SHE did it!” Atka pointed emphaticly at her roommate. “She was everywhere with the dust rag.” Dean simply smiled and thought about how wonderful the female nesting instinct is.

He let them know how pleasing it was, whoever had done it, and started to say something else. He was interrupted.

“Would you bring out the crossword puzzle cards for us?” Atka’s friend asked for it coyly. “They are such a pleasure.”

“Nooo...., Dean, we have an idea!” Atka interrupted. The two young friends argued back and forth in Mongolian for a minute, then began giggling hopelessly from embarrassment, peeking at Dean. Of course, he could not understand what was so titillating. He could see that Atka was getting the upper hand in the discussion, and he could tell by the tone that it was the sequel to a conversation that had gone on before.

Finally, the two turned to look at him. For a moment, Dean felt like he was the hunted rather than the hunter.

“Hchoeur hchoochen adoo oonazh yavna.” Atka said the words with a sensuous smile that looked much more mature than he had seen from her before. Her friend grinned as she nodded agreement.

“Hchoeur...” was what it sounded like. Of course, the Mongolian words, written in the Cyrillic alphabet, were a bit difficult for Dean to note down later. At the time, he was rather preoccupied, as the two advanced toward him, dark eyes flashing.

Graciously, but with nimble fingers, they began to remove his clothing. Atka stood close to him and almost whispered... the thin walls in the apartment must have had ears.

“Hchouer...” she rolled the phrase out again, more times, as if it was a mantra, enjoying the sound of the words. “The ancient custom,” she murmured to him, as her friend undid his belt buckle.

“What ancient custom?” Dean was genuinely perplexed. It was clear that the week long obsession that he had suggested as to how they would best have sex with him had worked, but for what?

Leaning back in the airplane seat now, he remember how mystified he had been. His Asian seatmates had closed their eyes for a nap now, and as he studied their relaxed faces, his thoughts returned to his long ago Moscow experiences. The plane’s engines droned.

“The ancient custom,” Atka continued, “of the story of two maidens on a stallion.” Her friend sighed approvingly and caressed his swelling manhood as she unzipped him.

“I don’t know the story...” he gasped, vaguely remembering only the informal title. Perhaps it had been in a Playboy vignette, or had it been in the too-hasty World Sex unit at the Marin school? No matter how innovative a school is, there always seemed to be something short-changed, the interesting stuff that they rush you through. And, of course, the admissions office had recommended that he sign up for additional specialized courses in the World Sex curriculum, but the damn bean-counters at his agency held him to the one Survey course.

Atka whispered an outline of the Mongolian myth to him, as her friend slid his pants down.

“Two maidens loved the same man, but they could not marry him because of family commitments. Their parents wanted them to marry other men. Of course, they had to be virgins for their wedding nights, or else great criticism would come on their parents, who they dearly loved.”

Dean loved the sound of her accented, slightly archaic English. He nodded to her to go on, as her friend kissed her way up his legs, caressing them as she went upwards. Atka adoringly slipped his shirt from his shoulders, doing it slowly as she spoke.

“They realized that they would never trust each other or him to go to a tryst. It would be too tempting to meet as a couple, and be swept away by lust or passion, whichever it might have been. But if the two women went with him together, they could enjoy a special night with him and do nice things [her vocabulary failed her] with him. Pleasing him things.

“That night, they took horses out to run little races with; he rode a handsome white stallion. They ran the races farther and farther from their homes, until finally they ran off over the horizon. Their families were distressed, sending their brothers out to look for them. But they were in a secluded spot that their boyfriend, uh, their lover, had found.

“Tenderly, lovingly, they undressed him, and enjoyed the touch of skin to skin. Gentle caresses, and then their nipples grazing on his bare chest. Sweet kisses, and then their lips taking turns around his hard staff. Eagerly, they took turns riding him, clutching his man-thing to themselves, but being careful not to lose their precious maidenheads as they stimulated themselves to electric excitement. At last, satiated, they stroked him to a desperate climax, and watched his fountain flow between them as they knelt on each side. This went on for some time. In the late night, when he no longer could rise to their touch, they slept on each side of him, enjoying his warmth, and in the morning, came home, saying that they had gotten lost. Their boy friend, they said, was tired because he had climbed a mountain for them to look for the way home.

“’Hchoeur hchoochen adoo oonazh yavna.’ It’s really a very simple solution.” Atka looked pleased at completing the explanation in English, and celebrated by removing her blouse. Her friend knelt at Dean’s feet, kissing and teasing up the inside of his thighs.

“We’ll still be virgins when we are finished, yes?” Her question was an order. Dean nodded agreement. He noticed that Atka let her friend think that she was agreeing, but had actually said nothing concrete.

Atka paused for a moment with her hands on her bra clip. A pensive look crossed her visage. Was it shyness or was she crossing a divide in her mind?

“Mine are not very large.” She looked down at her friend, who had wriggled out of her sweater and was unbuttoning her crisp, white Russian student’s uniform blouse. Her friends’ bosom cantilevered out from between the receding cotton blouse, suspended in an old-fashioned looking bra. The bright stripes that had caught his eye must have been her one-and-only lingerie luxury.

Dean smiled gently, and touched Atka’s bra, outlining her curves. It was easy to take a reassuring tone, because what he told her was true—that he was not concerned about it (the advantage, he realized, of experience), and that as she let herself enjoy what was happening now, beginning with his touch, she would think less and less about her concerns... and more and more about the beauty that she was becoming a part of.... and that as she thought about it in these relaxed surroundings, she might be surprised to feel that her breasts were growing in size, growing to the size she would be proud to show.

Atka did look surprised as she realized the truth in what he said, and looked down to see why her bra now felt so snug, almost uncomfortably so, now that she thought about it. There must have been magic in Dean’s fingers—she recalled another folk tale that she would tell him later. Now she relieved the stress by flinging off her bra, and advanced on him proudly, her nipples showing her readiness.

“Stretch out on the bed,” she motioned, and Dean did so, his eyes wide with enthusiasm. Atka and her friend knelt over him to pull of his pants, taking his underpants with them in one grab. His freed penis rose triumphantly, and the two young woman tittered with amusement, their high voices fading into mellower tones that came from deep within.

They raced each other to remove their last coverings, leaving their socks on against the chill floor. The dark uniform socks looked amazingly complementary to their dark triangles.

Distracting though their proud charms were, Dean was alert enough to realize that the post-hypnotic suggestion to think about having sex with him had definitely dominated their week. They were hot and eager to nuzzle against him, grazing every part of their soft bodies skin to skin across his firm muscles, enjoying their discoveries. Their excitement left moist trails as they criss-crossed over him; they paused for kisses, and went on for caresses. His own flow of softening fluid strung across them, forming a kind of web surrounding the trio.

Dean was also alert enough to notice that Atka was subtly orchestrating their movements, as though she had thought out the whole thing. Of course, being the brighter of the two, she would have been more deeply affected by the suggestions—suggestions which had mainly served to open their imaginations to sensual possibilities. She was at once lost in enjoyment, and yet following some sort of plan. Gently, unobtrusively, and reflecting her mild image, Atka yielded to her friend’s move to slide a knee over Dean’s chest and bend over him, straddling to hold her steamy sex against him. Her friend slid back and forth, teasing Dean with her breasts, letting him suck on her nipples, coaxing him to greater efforts.

And then Atka’s plan lit up in Dean’s mind like an overloaded reactor—Atka slid over him in the “two maidens on a stallion” position, too, her arms around her friend as if she were the passenger on a motorcycle. Gliding her hands to the sides of her friend’s breasts, she kneaded them sensuously, seductively, whispering sweet encouragements in Mongolian. Combined with Dean’s kisses and her friend’s own motions, the curves of her friend swelled and heaved with each heartbeat—no doubt further excited by having “won out” for the favored position on the stallion—a position that she knew that she had deserved all along. Atka’s own seeming subordination just added to the thrill of victory.

Dean would have held his breath if he could have, for what happened next. Guided by Atka’s hands and whispers, her friend leaned far forward, practically smothering him with the luscious softness at his lips. And as she leaned forward, Atka moved forward, too, rising slightly, grazing along Dean’s rigid manhood. Now he knew that he was right as to what was happening.

As she reached his tip, it only took a gentle flip with one hand, and she was coming down on his hardness. Without conscious thought, his experienced muscles flexed, and a thick stream of his fluid mingled with hers. Dean swam steadily through her tight vagina, opening her to the world of pleasure at her own pace as she closed around him. Atka’s face showed her wanton hunger for him, but also some uncertainty—she truly was a virgin till this moment. Dean felt his reflexes taking control, as he set the pace for their gyrations, lifting both women upwards with his strength. Atka’s anxiety faded as she realized that he was enjoying being in her, that everything was going the way that she had wanted it.

Their buxom companion stroked herself wildly now, driven on by Dean’s lips on her breasts, cooing and crying out for more. Behind her, Atka silently, smoothly, rode the waves that she shared with Dean, higher and higher. The smile on her face broadened, and then broke into ecstasy as their mutual wave crested and Dean pumped himself deep into her.

Afterward, they lolled about on the bed, with Atka keeping her legs tightly together—perhaps to hold his gift warm within. Dean helped them find their undergarments—they suddenly felt schoolgirl shyness. Atka’s friend chattered on about all the wonderful sensations, and once having donned the littlest bit of clothing, admitted to her curiosity about Dean’s lazily moving penis. He showed her how it would come back to life with just the right kisses from her. She squealed with delight as he hardened at the touch of her coaxing fingers and lips.

Atka looked on silently, daydreaming. Once her panties were on, she had sat with her legs crossed, leaning back on the pillows, logging all the details of Dean into deepest memories.

“Wouldn’t it feel good to have this inside of you? That would wake you up, sleepyhead!” Atka’s friend teased her. Atka feigned a blush, but smiled a tiny smile at the confirmation that her friend was unaware of the bridge that Atka had eagerly crossed.

“I had always wanted my first time to be beautiful,” she said quietly.

“And it will be, Atka!” Her friend misunderstood her as talking about the future, rather than the very recent past. She continued.

“There are some things about English verbs that I do not understand,” Atka’s friend said. “You should say that you ‘have always wanted’ your first time to be beautiful. Mine will be.”

Atka smiled and quietly agreed.

“Yes, I should have said ‘my first time will be beautiful.’ That would be the right thing to say, wouldn’t it, Dean?” She licked her lips slightly, and crossed her legs more closely together. “And, when it has happened, I will always keep the moment in my memories.”

Dean recalled how their lessons had come to include not only languages, but also many other enjoyable ways of pleasuring each other without ‘having sex.’ Atka never said a word more about what had happened, not even when her friend had sighed and said that sometimes, just sometimes, she thought about going all the way with Dean. Atka had just smiled seraphically.

One of the two students next to him stirred and glanced over at him. He felt his manhood stirring. He had eye contact—he thought of his bag under the seat in front. The cards from the School for Social Expression were in there. He could just pull them out, just for old times sake.... and then he stopped himself. It was not going to be like old times, yet. Maybe never again. Suddenly he wanted to know where he would stand with Michelle—that was more important than proving himself for the zillionth time.

“Boy, that’s dumb!” Dean told himself. But as the seatbelt light came on for the Denver approach, he felt better than he had in a long time.

Did Dean gain valuable contacts through the young women? I asked him that, but this time it was his turn to smile seraphically.