The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

In a decisive act to end the war of attrition, Emma simply brought in the poster and stuck it up next to the door. Then she sat on the floor, cross-legged and annoyed and feeling hot in the searing heat, with nothing to do but to look up at it.

Jackie, too, ogled the misplaced message and it brought her to laughter. When she had finished, she shared the punchline: “It’s like we need personal instruction on homophobia.”

Emma didn’t laugh. “I don’t think it’s funny, Jackie. I had to do this because, as well as just being insensitive, the racket keeps us up all night. Why is everyone else coming back early from wherever it was that they spent the last umpteen weeks drinking? At least we have two excuses—we’re too poor to pay for everything ourselves, and your parents came back and kicked us out of their villa.”

Wilting like leaves parched by the sun, both women thought of the events of the past few evenings. Even though few people had come back to the halls of residence so early before the start of term, most of those who had were acting like arseholes. It seemed as if the new pro-tolerance poster had disturbed the homeostatic functioning of the finely-tuned organism that was the halls of residence. First, opposing messages had been pasted up in a jeering circle around it, proclaiming in indelicate language the impropriety of gay sex. Then, after Emma’s rather forthright challenges to these imposters (decrying, then defacing, and finally destroying), a campaign of drunken cackling began outside their door. It generally involved male voices reading out the pro-tolerance message in various tones: sarcasm, derision, quasi-comatose slurring.

“The problem probably started when you wrote ‘I hope people you love turn out to be gay’ over what they stuck on the wall,” offered Jackie, too cheerful to accept the futility of her argument.

“No,” denied Emma, cutting her off. “I won’t accept that a lack of acceptance is as acceptable as...”

Her voice trailed away as she tried to finish.

“Acceptance?” grinned Jackie, finishing for her.

“Yeah, well, I can’t get my words out. It’s too hot,” moaned Emma. “Why aren’t we on a beach in Brighton or something? Why aren’t we getting drunk and just ignoring the fucking dregs of this sweaty Summer?”

“Language,” muttered Jackie, having learned there was no point in actually challenging her best friend. Louder: “I suppose it is like we’re in Brighton with drunk people. And they keep walking past the effing door and making a big deal over things. Why must they disagree with something on the wall outside our room while we’re sleeping?”

“We weren’t sleeping. We can’t sleep. It’s too hot.” Emma buried her head in her hands as if trying to hide herself from wretched wakefulness.

Jackie continued staring at the crisp white letters cooling in the ember coals of the red background.

The poster shouted out its message: Some people are gay. Get over it. What stood out immediately was that the first sentence, in white letters on the red background, stood out and looked refreshing. The red background burned like the air around them.

Emma looked at the ends of her hair. She wished her hair was that red, or perhaps a complete and glossy cherry-red—instead the dye had made it a dark burned red-brown. Just looking at it made her feel as if she was burning too, burning to a cinder.

Then she examined the poster on a more intellectual level. Taking more time to come to a conclusion, she felt that the poster signified an unassuming pride in one’s self without being garish. It asked for acceptance without needing to give a reason. It was a message that, if taken to heart, could make the world a better place.

Red background, red-hot, griddle-hot. The shining sun-child called Summer held her in a bear hug. flash-fried her brain, left her drained and incapable.

“Y’know,” mused Jackie, “my gay friend says that it’s not even like all gay guys like anal sex.” She stored a lot of personal importance in the fact that she had a wide demographic range of friends, as if it made her a better person and shielded her from scrutiny.

“Really?” mumbled Emma, mouth still obscured. “That must be a bit of a let-down when they hook up. Imagine you or me saying that our vaginas were off limits.” Emma did not need to boast about having a rainbow of friends—she was so right on that no-one would ever accuse her of prejudice. She put her hands back in her lap, still sitting cross-legged on the floor. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so rude, it’s just the heat is getting to me. I have no problem with whatever people do or don’t do with any of their entrances. As long as it’s their own choice.”

“Yeah, with you that goes without saying.” Jackie showed a spurt of boredom and turned around on the bed, got into a kneeling position, and resumed staring out of the window. Swallows screeched sounds of insect searches as the sun set. She sighed.

Emma did not need to look to guess about the posture of her room-mate. “You leaning over the windowsill again? Who are you showing your tits to this time?”

“They’re not called ‘tits’, thank you.”

Emma considered the irony of this statement. Surely what everyone saw immediately about her were precisely her tits. Cheerfully overweight, face generally lit up with good humour, tucked in beneath a crazy spray of frizzy blonde curls. And then you would look down, and you would inevitably be offered a double dose of heaving flesh. “We’re on the second floor. You’re probably giving people neck ache as they stare up at you, trying to figure out whether they’re real or prosthetic. So, in your case, dear, you have ‘fun bags’, ‘plumper pillows’, or ‘tits’.”

And before Jackie could complain, Emma beat her to it. “Now, I have a disappointing pair of simple ‘breasts’.” And Emma looked down, hoping for a curved crescent of cleavage to have mystically developed without human intervention.

Jackie capitalised on this moment of reflection. “If you call me a ‘plumper’ again I’m going to smother you with ‘em. In fact, you talk about my ‘tits’ an awful lot, dear. Jealous? I hope I don’t give you neck ache as you stare up at me.” The sound of a smirk on her lips.

“Oh, shut up, otherwise I’ll get up and push you out of the window.”

There was a pause. Perhaps Emma was considering the actual act of violence. Maybe Jackie was imagining falling through the air, the wind rushing past her and through her and relieving her of some of the excess heat that was radiating from her very core.

“I guess your safety features will stop you from hurting yourself too badly anyway.” And Emma imagined Jackie bouncing and jostling on her self-deploying air bags.

Jackie was too drained to reply. Instead, they both sighed.

Dusk had fallen. Nothing more had been said, or needed to be said, or could be said. Moaning that “it’s hot“ would be redundant, being insulting about breasts would be too demanding, and having a playful argument would just lead to both girls mewling and pawing blindly at each other like new-born puppies.

Emma expended what little strength she had dragging the chair from the desk to the middle of the room. She turned it to the wall. She sat in it, long legs tucked under her, facing the poster.

Jackie heard the dragging sound and thought about it. After some time, and without turning ‘round: “what are you doing?”

“Well, you’re hogging the window,” or at least your tits are, “so I’ve just got this poster to look at.”

“You’re crazy.” But said without conviction.

Emma sat, the night thickening like a blood clot, long naked legs and long red-brown hair looking more black in the lack of light, staring at the poster.

Without moving her head, she started talking, confident that Jackie had not moved and was still looking at nothing in particularly out of the window and could hear her perfectly. “How would you ‘get over’ it?”

“I dunno.” It was marginally cooler, but still too hot to expend much effort. Their bodies creaked under the stifling layers of air.

“Let’s imagine that we’re getting over a boy.”

“Well, you find another one. It just makes sense. And he blasts the other one away.” Jackie giggled slightly at what must have been, in her mind, a risqué image.

“What, like a whale? With their gallons of semen?”

“Oh, Emma, you are a filthy whore.”

“But that’s what you were thinking of, right?”

Yes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Whatever.” Emma resumed her line of questioning. “OK, so how would you ‘get over’ falling off a horse?”

“That happened to me. And you get right back on there and try again.”

“That’s right. How would you ‘get over’ your car getting totalled in an accident?”

“You buy a new one. Look, where is this going?”

“How would you ‘get over’ some people being gay?”

“...oh.” Jackie considered this for a moment. If Emma had turned around, she would have seen the very last of the red-tinged sunset playing in her cascade of knitted hair. She would also have seen her arse sticking out towards her, a fantastic and noticeable thing that lived, sadly, beneath her boobs and received far less attention.

“I don’t think that’s fair,” continued Jackie. “You were asking me about how I would get over something that happened to me. Now you’re asking how I’d get over something that is in other people. It’s not comparable.”

“Hm. OK. How would you get over your own feelings about not liking gay people?”

“Well. I guess you’d need to talk to them. And find out about them. And, I dunno, ‘walk a mile in their shoes’.”

“That’s right, Jackie. We need everyone to walk a mile in their shoes. Then they’ll get over it.”

Jackie rubbed her eyes, and finally turned to look into the room. All she could see, the light having turned from red to an almost blue colour, was Emma sitting in a chair, facing away, staring at the poster. She supposed that it was uniquely fascinating. “Right,” she declared, “I’m so bored I’m going to brush my teeth and go to bed.”

Emma couldn’t help but watch as Jackie shuffled her wonderful arse past her to the sink and started brushing her teeth. It’s her fault for just wearing a pair of thong-style panties, she justified to herself. First, Jackie bent over to get her toothbrush, the cheeks clearly visible as they swelled spherically from the taut fabric above. Then, right arm parallel to the ground, she started brushing. Her cheeks wobbled in response to the vigorous movements.

“You brush too hard,” said Emma in a far-away voice.

Jackie didn’t respond.

“It makes your butt move,” added Emma.

Jackie took the brush out of her mouth as she turned around. “What are you looking at my ass for?”

‘cuz I can’t see your tits from here. Emma effected looking away, but as soon as it was safe again, resumed her ogling.

She imagined the cheeks red, red with shame and punishment, red because of a spanking. And, on that red background, white letters. “Some people are gay,” Emma mumbled.

Spitting and rinsing, foregoing flossing, Jackie hustled to bed. Emma tried, tried so hard not to, but she failed. Her eyes swivelled and her head swivelled and her body swivelled and she couldn’t get enough of that arse and those cheeks and their movements.

She ruminated on the beauty of the pink flesh for a long, long moment. One hand started to rub a smooth thigh. It curled around underneath and moved upward, came closer to the hottest part of her body.

“Some people are gay,” said Emma, louder, as if realising it for the first time.

“Shut up, I’m trying to get to sleep,” cried Jackie, throwing a bra over Emma’s head.

Emma looked around the back of the chair, expectant. The hand hovered at the boundary between her own panties and the bare flesh of her flat tummy above it.

Jackie was naked.

Emma slid one finger under the elastic. Hot hot heat.

Jackie pulled her sheet over her to cover her nudity.

Disappointing.

Staring again.

At the poster.

Candy colours, leaping out, visible in her mind even in the dark.

Visible even when she closed her eyes.

Her hand was finding burning redness everywhere in the confines of the fabric. Her hand was the white white letters stamped on to the red red sea. Her hand left tingles of coolness.

She felt like she was giving off steam, as the white trails evaporated quickly under the intensity of the red glare.

She wondered if she would have to touch herself for ever and ever and ever, a bright spark borne aloft by the ferocity of the fire below, never dropping.

A thought came to Emma’s mind, and it burned as brightly now as fire-red letters on a white background—a block of ice, a slab of marble, the starched stiffness of restaurant table linen. I won’t be able to get over it until I get a piece of her. I haven’t walked a mile in their shoes. She tried to quench the letters, but a smoking black imprint was left behind. The burning memory mocked her, mocked her like the oppressive heat, and impressed itself within her mind like the sizzling red hot metal of a brand.

“Some people are gay,” Emma whispered, “and I need to get over it.”

She stood, walked towards the poster. She nestled her head against it in a silent moment of prayer. Eyes closed, there was still an after-image seared by a laser beam through her dilated pupils, which opened so readily to the outside (like the window Jackie had leaned out of, Jackie leaning through her eyes breasts exposed cleavage droplets of sweat running down) and took in so much of the laser beam that had branded the white words cooking in the red flame on to her retinas (just as I want my fluids to sizzle and spit on the red hot flame of Jackie’s body leaving smoking trails of sex) and her optic nerve relayed all the information to her brain which lapped it all up greedily like cool cool milk under the hot hot sun (my own tongue licking and lapping at Jackie’s hot body my cool cool tongue against the hot hot hotness).

Emma pushed away from the wall, images filling her mind, eyes open but sightless, found herself at Jackie’s bed. She was naked, panties and vest discarded somewhere immaterial.

Jackie, traced in the twilight, bluepurpleblack as if in a dream of mermaids deep underwater. Turned away, towards the window, which breathed at her with the curtain as an expanding and falling lung. The sheet fell aslant across her back, and Emma could suddenly see in detail the map of brown spots that made her unique, like a fingerprint that covered her skin. Brakes of a car sang from far off. A snatch of music, played too loud, before being turned down. Emma let her eyes revel in the body that lay in front of her.

“I need to get over this,” Emma rationalised, peeling the sheet away from her friend’s hands and arms and self-loving hug.

“I need to see her,” and Emma stood, the swell of breasts falling sideways capturing her eyes, spilling below the sleeping face and above the roundness of the tummy. Then she crouched, and looked up and down, from the hair to the globes of her arse, taking in afresh the dots that made this body Jackie on the way.

“I need to smell her,” and Emma pressed her face towards the cleft, nose a centimetre away. Overcome with sensations, she rolled backwards on her feet, almost toppling from her crouch.

“You smell so good, Jackie. So hot.”

The vowel in ‘hot’ was drawn out and ended like a moan. Then a pause. A wavering, teetering, blink-less pause.

“I need to taste you,” and Emma moved to the right slightly, gently licked the line that formed between upper thigh and cheek. Starting from the bottom, right to the top, tongue inching incrementally.

“Hmm,” said Jackie, confused, perhaps dreaming of a face and a tongue invading her from below. She wriggled her hips, kicked her legs, sent the sheet wrinkling even further towards the end of the bed.

Emma held her breath and waited.

“Hmm,” said Jackie, exactly the same, and this time—gloriously, stupendously—turned over.

Barely able to wait to be sure that Jackie was completely asleep, Emma moved her face to breathe in the spicy warmth of the spilling toppling wobbling breasts in front of her.

“I need to get over these,” Emma rationalised, and started to suck on the nipples. One hand lifted and squeezed and fondled them, brought them more completely to her mouth. Another hand drew lazy shapes in between her thighs. She briefly wondered how she would look from behind, her bare back punctuated by the long flame of red hair, cherry red hair, fire red hair. Her own arse, small and inconspicuous in comparison to the wonderful jellied mounds she had been obsessed with, bobbing up and down in the air as she ran her face and lip and teeth and tongue backwards and forwards over the smooth skin and bumpy areolæ and hard wet nipples of her friends tits. Where they had pressed together they were so warm with body heat. She suddenly realised that it was not too hot, it was not hot enough, and she was overcome with the desire to lie in a sandwich of this flesh and become as warm as this body’s most intimate clefts.

Images assailing her, Emma started to breathe more heavily and more raggedly. She feasted on her friend’s flesh with total abandonment.

Jackie woke up, eyes snapping, to the sensations of sucking nibbling and biting on her sensitive breasts.

“What are you doing?” she screeched, pulling back so far that the small of her back smacked flatly against the wall.

No answer came from Emma. Kneeling next to the bed, close enough that it was indisputable that she had been touching her friend. Her wet mouth still lay open, and her wet eyes still shimmered like heat haze. These considered Jackie with lust.

“What are you doing?” Jackie said, disbelievingly, as she realised that Emma was looking on blankly as she crested a wave of orgasm.

Emma juddered and shuddered as two fingers brought her to completion.

When she could finally speak, and for some reason Jackie could not find words to say during the long interval, she rationalised: “I needed to get over it.”

Jackie still didn’t know what to say.

“You need to get over it too.”

And Emma went to her own bed and lay down, naked, satiated, and fell asleep.

Jackie watched her friend fall asleep and knew it was her friend and was worried for her friend yet wondered if it was her friend at all. It wasn’t like Emma to be like this. Not that Emma wasn’t a bit kinky. Not that Emma didn’t sometimes get frustrated when all the guys were boorish and stupid and turned her off and she needed a bit of alone time to rid herself of the feelings. Not that Emma was in any way judgemental of other people’s lifestyles.

But Emma wasn’t a lesbian.

And Emma certainly didn’t wake people up by worshipping their bodies with her mouth.

Jackie was worried and couldn’t sleep.

She got up from the bed, a place where she felt betrayed and confused, and sat on the chair.

There was nothing to look at but the poster.

Emma awoke, the air charged with the feeling of a new day. Birds sang about the pinkness of the dawn.

Her friend’s face hovered above her and before she knew why Emma felt ashamed.

“I’m sorry,” then she realised what she was sorry for. She tried to hide her face with her hands, but they seemed to be trapped under the sheet. “I don’t know... the poster...”

“You just wanted to ‘get over it’?” asked Jackie, in an unusually quiet voice.

Emma realised that she did not have a sheet on her. She was not covered by anything except a dollop of naked flesh over her torso. Her hands and arms were pinned down by her friend, who was straddling her hips.

“We both need to get over it,” Jackie rationalised, “we need to do it together.”

Emma realised that Jackie was not looking down with loving concern. She was looking down with a mix of fascination and attraction. It was how she herself must have looked last night.

And before she could say anything more, Jackie lowered her breasts onto Emma’s face.

“Suck on my tits. I know you wanna.”

Jackie had lowered her tits into Emma’s face.

Emma’s mouth was all nipple and skin and confusion and lust.

“You see, honey,” explained Jackie, “some people are gay. And we’ve got to get over it.” She jostled and rubbed and teased. “We’ve got to experience it for ourselves and stop judging. And some people call them ‘tits’, and some people call my wet snatch a... um... ‘snatch’.”

Pummelled and beaten into submission by her feelings and their kinship, Emma’s mouth latched on to a nipple and started to suck.

After a second, it seemed like the most natural thing to do in the world.

Jackie raised on hand to support and squeeze her breast, relishing the sensations.

“It’s not hot enough. We need to make it hotter.”

And, drawing back slowly, her nipple disengaging from Emma’s mouth, Emma scrambling to keep up, Jackie slowly and deliberately lay back.

Her hair spilled like sunshine over the end of the bed.

She beckoned with a crooked finger.

“There’s something you forgot to finish off last night, sexy.”

Emma found the source of the heat, peppery, spicy, hot hot heat. She devoured it with her cool mouth. It was like sour cream dolloped on to a chilli salsa. It was good.

Sitting up, legs over the edge of the bed, naked and free, watching the sun rise.

Hand in hand, companionable.

“I don’t think we’ll ever be over it,” they both said, together, closer than they had ever been before.