The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

DAYTIME — WRITING IS HARD

The TA dropped Vicky’s graded homework in front of her and picked up this week’s completed assignment. This class required both a teacher and assistant to get through all the marking, and even with the Egg’s enhancements Vicky found it the most challenging.

She was so grateful when Annette decided to take the course along with her; they sat side by side looking over their marks.

“A+,” Annette boasted.

“B+,” Vicky admitted.

“I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Rather than working at desks, this classroom has small round tables, and students are encouraged to peer review on everything but the final. Under the table Annette has a small plastic dial attached to a rectangular base, with wires leading under Vicky’s dress and to an egg shaped vibrator nestled in her pussy. As a reward, Annette turns the dial up full for a good ten count and then back down to a low hum.

Flushed, Vicky says, “Thank you.”

When Annette heard about this writing class that Vicky was proposing to take she decided enroll as well. It would help her write the book with her dad, and she had some ideas as to how to conquer the best seller list. The Egg had sparked not only talent, but ambition as well. Her consistent “A”s stoked her ego to new heights, but she remained aware how much work she had to put in to get there. It was just now that it seemed worth it. She planned to reward herself by really giving it to Vicky later. Her submissive best friend Vicky. Both were new ideas for her, she’d never had a best friend before, only minions. And she’d never had a submissive either. She liked both a lot. “Extra hard today,” she thought.

Vicky’s special talent, a replacement for having an angry and jealous nature was to be ultra-agreeable and the best lover possible for any in the gang, and if that meant being hog-tied, poked, prodded and penetrated by Annette, so be it. She was happier like this than she had ever been and knew it. She was having the time of her life since I arrived.

The course was acceptable for the English credit Vicky needed, and the creative writing component appealed to Annette, who was a little gun-shy about returning to school, though she had committed to her folks that she would do it. But she was hoping this course would do. She figured that if she could start writing full time then she could avoid having to go to more classes in the fall.

Each session had three hour-long sections, the first was Writing for Business, which Vicky tried to concentrate on as Annette grew more bored and tended to drift, though she always seemed to absorb the lesson. She knew that this was important to Vicky, so didn’t distract her more than a little with the vibrator. The second section was worse though, Writing for Academia. Neither girl had any interest in advanced education and the technicalities of ‘op. cit.’ bored both to tears, and it was here that Annette’s gifts lifted her far above Vicky’s B+ level to the top of the class, she heard it, she remembered it, and she paid no attention at the time to the lecture, while Vicky took notes furiously with one hand and often had the other under the table stroking Annette’s puss, Annette’s hand on top of hers, guiding her. Fortunately it was shortened by the mid-morning break, and the girls found a washroom on the mostly unused top floor and quickly had a snatch to eat while the other students quickly snatched a bite to eat in the cafeteria. Annette’s technical skill sped Vicky to a quick orgasm, which meant that there was more time for her to return the favour. And she made sure that Vicky had drunk a coffee earlier, cream, two sugars, just the way Annette liked it, so when Vicky came Annette got her caffeine fix as well. They quickly redid their makeup in eager anticipation of the highlight for today’s class.

The third hour was creative writing, both girls concentrated hard and wrote furiously, Annette fully engaged at last. It made coming here all worthwhile. For the first time in her life she had been reading, reading, reading. Everything from bestsellers to men’s magazines to trade periodicals. She had checked out the several years old writer’s guide from the local library and had written a list of the publishers she could expect to sell to right away, and those she wanted to wait for later. She’d talked Andy into lending her ALL the books he kept under the counter in his store, not just the fairly ordinary porn, but the really kinky ones too, bondage, sex slavery, hypnosis, animals, incest, gay, bi, lesbian, shoes, hose, elbows, cheese, and other fetishes of all types and degrees, and Andy even let her go through the catalogs to get things he’d never sell, the Egg had set up an account for her, and if this is how she wanted to spend her money, that was her choice. She read the classics; Lady Chatterly’s Lover, Justine, Forever Amber, Candy, Lolita, The Story of O, Valley of the Dolls, Davina, or the Romance of Mesmerism, everything she could find from Henry Miller, and even sexy fluff writers like Ted Mark and Harold Robbins. Market research, she called it.

She also went to the kinky store that Troy told her about, the one he’d gone shopping at with the older women. She was delighted to find a credit in her name there as well. Her toy box was soon filled with all sorts of new playthings; Barbie and Mr. Muffinface were sent to the attic in a cardboard box.

The girls headed out to lunch and discussed their next, final assignments. Vicky carried both their packs with their books.

Vicky hadn’t thought much one way or another when Annette announced she was taking the class as well. She was just her ex-boyfriend’s friend’s older sister, after all. But Annette had seemed to take a real interest in her. When the teacher suggested that students pair up and proof each other’s work it seemed natural they’d partner.

Early on it became apparent that Vicky was a better proofreader than writer, she couldn’t just cut to the heart of whatever she was writing about, and whenever she had an assignment due, the laundry ended up done, the apartment vacuumed and the socks drawer sorted. But she did have an eye for picky detail, helping her get though the Writing for Academia section of the course.

Annette, on the other hand, had been told she should start submitting her stories to a couple of local small press magazines. Her business and academic writing was indifferent, but her creative writing had “a cruel zest”. If she had any option she’d have tried to seduce the TA for telling her this, despite the fact that he was overweight, over-aged, and had a limp. But that was not allowed.

Still, Annette was painfully aware that having Vicky read her work improved it. Not just the technical points of grammar and punctuation, but having an early audience in itself other than the TA and teacher made a difference.

So they struck a bargain. It came about by horny accident. Annette was generally bored by the limited pool of sexual partners imposed by the Egg, and those available who she lusted after she had boinked, repeatedly. She missed the Saturday night disco one-night stands. She missed having a guy wrapped around her finger doing silly and humiliating things for her. So after the first class, she and Vicky went to study in her bedroom, and when Vicky tried to procrastinate on the assignment, Annette started ordering her around. Told her to do it. Or suck her clit.

Vicky chose the muffin munching. After all, her nature had been altered to comply with the group’s sexual demands. When done, Annette looked down at Vicky’s cum smeared face and said. “Now write!”

And she did. They had intended to spend the afternoon on their assignments. Annette sat at the other desk, and wrote page after page on a lined notepad, while Vicky struggled slowly one page and then another. After a while Vicky started flagging, Annette took her over the knee and gave her bum a few good whacks, then took out her butt plug from its box, lubed it and inserted it into Vicky. Vicky then finished the other two assignments, naked. As Annette demanded.

Over the course, Tuesday afternoon was ‘write and dominate’ day for the two of them. Annette might tie Vicky to a chair with a vibrator against her clit and a ball gag in her mouth and a pen taped to her hand while she completed that week’s work. Or have her suck one of Annette’s toes after each paragraph. Or anything else that Annette could think up to push Vicky into a submissive sexual posture. In class Vicky wore a small remote vibrator held against her clit by a leather strap, and handed the control to Annette, who used it whenever she felt Vicky was paying insufficient attention, or whenever Annette was feeling bored and wanted to play with her.

After the first few weeks they were the class stars, and were getting through the assignments in record time. The other students thought them snobs for not joining in the cafeteria break time, but they needed the release they found in the upstairs washroom by that point, though Vicky was the one getting most of the physical attention, Annette found ordering her around was a real turn on, yet she wished Vicky showed a little more fight. As it was, she had to find very minor flaws in order to “correct” Vicky’s behavior. They had only been almost caught once, but that possibility made it even more exciting. Not that Annette ultimately gave a shit.

When they started their study afternoons, they had planned on writing from one to five, but by the third week they were racing thought it. At first Vicky had seen they were done and packed to leave, but Annette took a chance, “Where do you think you are going?”

“Home?”

“I want you to look at some of the other things I’ve written.”

“Er, OK”

Annette pulled out a notebook tied shut with a ribbon. She undid the knot and put it in front of Vicky. The title on the first page is The Cruel Countess and the Helpless Maid. Right from the opening paragraph it’s shockingly filthy. But Vicky can’t stop reading, after the first page she reaches for a pencil and starts making the proofreading marks she’s learned, and then looks up at Annette. “Is this OK? It’s really good. Just some tweaks.” Annette nods.

Fifteen minutes later she’s done reading, “Is there more?”

Annette taps her head.

“God I’m hot,” Vicky says. “You got me all moist again.”

“Then get naked.”

This time the two make slow gentle love on the bed, stroking and sucking and kissing, no dildos, no toys, just skillful fingers, moist lips and a good dollop of the magic cream squishing between them.

As they lay in the afterglow in each other’s arms, Annette told Vicky her idea. “Do you want to be my researcher and proof-reader? I’ll give you ten percent of whatever I sell. I think I can get five hundred bucks for this, for sure, once I’m finished. We’ll work on it Tuesdays when we’re done the school stuff.”

For the next several weeks they worked on the novel once the assignments were done—Annette found and was delighted by the fact that she had to get Vicky het-up in order to be able to command her to do something she was resistant to—namely writing, and went all out to make sure that Vicky was made to be placed in submissive and humiliating positions, often gagged, tied except for her pen hand, dressed in leather, in rubber, in plastic, with clown make-up, with spankings and nipple clips, though neither girl was strongly turned on by pain, and the Egg had made it hard to inflict anything other than a mild warming or pinch to each other, but had the girl bound with all sorts of things inserted, stretched, folded and twisted as a human Gumby, my model for Vicky’s flexibility change. And there was something irresistible for Annette about administering a good spanking.

They split each day’s work on The Countess into two parts, the first was Vicky reading and proofing whatever Annette had written over the last week. This gave her a chance to recover from whatever Annette had inflicted on her so far. The second was as “researcher”, which often consisted of play acting the scenes already written with Annette taking place of the Countess and Vicky the helpless maid. They found that they might get so carried away it took setting an alarm clock to guarantee the end of the session and break their mutual fantasy. Though not always did they get so deeply in it, often the mood was broken when Annette thought, “She wouldn’t say that,” and stopped to amend the text. But sometimes it seemed very real. For the branding scene Vicky fainted, though the brand itself was only a red felt marker drawing a circle on her bum.

One day Annette co-opted Troy to play the henchman Footman, who had once been the maid’s true love and childhood friend, now a dastardly betrayer, turning the poor girl in while pretending to help her escape. He wasn’t sure what it was all about, but he stiffened right up when he entered Annette’s bedroom to find her dressed in a black satin merry widow and heels, her tits pushed up and out the top, and Vicky gagged and tied to the posts on the foot of the bed, on the outside facing the mattress. “Chicks are weird,” he thought. Annette thrust a script in his hand, and he read his part pretty well, he’d always wanted to be an actor and go to Hollywood and nail hot young actresses by the score on the beach with the waves rolling in the background. “Lay on the stars and look at the sand”, as George S Kaufman quipped.

After the “Countess” forced the maid to watch as she fucked the boy the poor girl had trusted and loved with all her innocent heart, she was made to suck his cum from her mistress’s purse. The Countess had him spend his next load of handsome servant jizzum up the maid’s fundament, telling him that as a reward for his service, the poor girl was to bend over and surrender her ass to him whenever he demanded, as long as he was in the Countess’ service. The maid’s tears of shame made them laugh.

Troy was invited to stick around that day for their usual post-writing lovemaking, which was usually tender and gentle in complete contrast to the brutality of their earlier activities. He was struck by how the switch had seemed to flip to ‘off’ once they ended their little drama—in fact, Annette seemed to be even more changed than Vicky, nicer, less demanding, more considerate of others. “Chicks are weird but these chicks are totally Scooby-doo,” was his conclusion.

But first was the analysis of what had just happened. Annette fired questions at Vicky, how did she feel, was the betrayal too soon or too obvious and what could she write to obscure it, what kind of clothes would they be wearing, that kind of thing. At times Vicky consulted her notes if she had seen something in her afternoons at the library. It was all businesslike and matter of fact, and it made Troy’s head spin, like the Marquis de Sade suddenly turning into the man in the gray flannel suit.

Then Annette turned on him. “Why do you think the footman betrayed her?”

Troy blinked for a second, and then answered, “Because he’s mean. Er, because he loves the countess... because he thinks it’s funny.”

“Funny?”

“Um, er, you know, she’s like a servant. What’s she going to do, go to another castle with a nicer countess? So, ‘Burn’! You know, funny for the countess, not the girl. That’s who he’s doing it for. The Countess. Duh.”

“What if she was really a princess, or another noble lady who was captured in battle?”

Troy takes a minute to think about this. “Well, she’d have to be something, wouldn’t she? I mean, if she was just born a servant, she’d not know to hope for better, she’d just run away into the woods, take it, or kill herself. And that hope is half your story. It’s why you keep reading. And why would the countess care about shaming the maid unless there was something about her that the countess hated? Or was jealous about. You know, Snow White.”

The girls were surprised that Troy could be so insightful; Annette furiously took notes while resolving to bring the footman back in a later chapter.

Annette and Vicky in fact were becoming fast friends the rest of the week. They’d talk on the phone and go shopping and only occasionally made out, and those times were only when Andy, Troy or Aram were around to join them. They even surprised Carl once for a happy trio with his monster cock. Neither girl had ever been that close to other women as girlfriends, if Annette saw them as possible competition, Vicky knew they were. Those who knew Annette best, her friends and family could hardly believe it.

And as long as they worked together the ball gag and the restraining ropes, the imperious command and groveling submission were part of the process, though neither found themselves wanting or even thinking about playing such games at any other time. “It gets the job done,” they agreed. And what writer—both amateur and professional isn’t at heart a combination of expectant masochist and preening egotist?

A month later, with the class only just over half done, Annette offered Vicky another five percent to take on the job of typing the finished manuscript, which they promptly sent with a SASE to what Andy described as the most reliable of the porn publishers he dealt with. And they requested the pen name “Michelle von Whipperherd”.

Annette set her sights higher for her next book, a romance publisher that was getting into a “hotter” line of books, more explicit, yet able to be found in public libraries and supermarket spin racks. Restoration England, with a plucky heroine who faces abuse and degradation to rise to be the most celebrated brothel keeper in all London, but yearns for her lost love, who has become the most notorious pirate on the Spanish Main. Vicky would act out the early “poor abused orphan girl in trouble” chapters, and Annette the later cruelly-elegant yet tragic and beautifully-dressed heroine of the later ones. “Win win,” she thought. The fact that is was basically a rewrite of Fanny Hill didn’t bother her at all. Not for that market which was full of them. She knew she could do better than them all and that is what was selling.

Annette was feeling more confident, and saw that near-smut would always outsell pure porn, and having got her feet wet with the first book, it was time to do something that would plunge her headlong into writing as a career. And after this, perhaps something in modern times, like maybe in Hollywood, where she could do some on-site research. With luck by then the cloistered group only restrictions would have passed.

Many years later, far long after all those involved here had passed to the great gig in the sky, a researcher, combined with a text analysis program of incredible sophistication for a lark fed a crusty porn novel found digging out the midden from a twentieth century hovel known as a “Motel 6” into the analyzer and it identified it as being written by the beloved Pulitzer prize winning novelist A.R. Bullman-Banger-Forbes-Winslow-Banger (again)—Taylor-McTeal, author of over fifty best sellers, children’s books, tv shows, films, holos, feelies and tyloids. And so The Cruel Countess and the Helpless Maid became a best seller too, though getting the first $500 the publisher paid for it several months after sending it off was Annette’s favorite writing memory for the rest of her professional life. And even a few centuries later, a six-limbed space floater mining the asteroid belt reading it between shifts was heard to exclaim, “Shazbot, that’s filthy!” before starting the next chapter while stroking two of its three utility penises.