The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Ooo. Lindy. Can I?” They sat on a picnic table, in the grassy square between the main campus buildings. Lindy was passing on the far side, looking athletic in her cutoff shorts and sandy swinging ponytail.

Allison cleared her throat.

“Sweety, what do we do first?”

“We ask their permission,” Celia pouted.

“Unless?”

“Unless they’re freshman.”

“Or?”

“Or they’re country music fans.”

“Or?”

“Or hairdressers.”

“Or?”

“Or politicians, emo chicks, or left-handed.”

“Is Lindy a freshman, a hairdresser, a country music fan, a politician, an emo chick or left-handed?”

“No. Wait! Lindy!” She called across the green, waving her arm. Lindy saw them, waved, walked over.

“Are you left-handed?”

“Um, yes? Heh. Hey Allie, hey Celia.”

“That’s cheating,” Allison said. “You knew she was left-handed. That’s the hand she held the ring with.”

“They’re your rules! Now your hatred of left-handed country music fans is going to destroy the whole track and field team.”

Lindy didn’t get the joke, but she laughed. Being around happy people is contagious like that.

The two girls grinned at her.

“Are you doing anything for the next hour?”

Shannon strode in and the crowd seemed to part. They didn’t, really; most of them just caught something out of the corner of their eyes as they talked about whatever, and moved, subconsciously, the impression of an unstoppable force having been left somewhere deep, in the lizard-brain, the part that controls breathing and heartbeat and talks to actual consciousness only at Thanksgiving.

She wore black suede pants, tight, and black suede boots. She liked them. Suede wasn’t harsh like leather; it made her look and feel soft, yet it still had that certain something. It was a material that begged to be touched.

She felt the crowd, choosing from the throng of hungry eyes. Not that one, he was just horny. That one was too. So was that one. Dudes, are you serious? She tuned them out. She was learning. At that moment, Shannon was aware of every mind in the building, and she felt she could squish any of them with the tiniest nudge of a thought. Celia had taught her more than she’d meant to.

There, there was one, the kind she was looking for. She turned her eyes just enough to get a better view. But wait, that was a chick. She furrowed her brow and watched.

The girl was talking to two others; they listened, either rapt or pretending to be, the way that people do with the leader of their group. The girl was the alpha; her eyes flicked around the room, feeling the attention of men on her and liking it. Shannon watched, fascinated.

She can’t be a bottom. She’s the leader! But she was. Shannon felt it.

Weird.

Well, you never could tell who it would be.

Something stirred in her as she watched the girl. It was the same feeling she got when she imagined taking a guy. The soft pants suddenly seemed tight against her legs.

Shannon cocked her head.

Ah. She understood what it was, where the tingle came from.

The look on someone’s face when she took them, whether it was a he or a she, would be the same, and that, that look, was what she really wanted. That look, it was gender-neutral. Neat. She was learning about herself, meeting herself for the first time. It was kinda fun to feel out where the boundaries were... and where they weren’t.

There, at the bar, there was another one. He didn’t look different, or act different, or do anything different than anyone else, but Shannon knew.

Maybe she’d take them both.

Today she could do anything, and when you can do anything you might as well do something worth remembering.

She strode towards the bar, brushing past the girl. A bit of her long hair flowed out, caught on the girl’s shoulder, and dragged for what seemed like a long time against the girl’s neck.

The girl turned. Her face faded into a perplexed half smile and she trailed off, sensing something without knowing what it was. Shannon disappeared into the crowd. The girl blinked and went back to talking to her friends.

There wasn’t a seat open at the bar, but that was better; it forced her to squeeze in against him. There was an ashtray on her side, but she picked the one on his side instead, reaching over him.

She felt his eyes flick to her hips: down, then back up.

“Cool pants.”

That’s why I bought em.

She leaned against him, but really, in those cramped quarters, there was nowhere else to lean.

“How long are you going to make me stand like this until you buy me a drink?” Her smile was self-effacing. It was a bold and cheesy line, and it made them both smile.

He laughed.

“What’ll you have?”

“You pick.”

It’s the last thing you’ll decide for yourself for a while.