The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Summer semester. Coach Beaumont Thompson, Buzz to his friends, liked coming to campus and his small office in the gymnasium even though he wasn’t teaching a class this semester and his swim team members had scattered to whatever small towns they called home. He lived alone since his divorce, and coming here gave him a sense of continuity. Also, someone was always around at the gym—summer term students working out, staff members going about their jobs. Buzz didn’t mind living alone, not really, but the emotional wounds from his ex-wife and the divorce were still fresh and he disliked being alone; being around people during the day made being solo at night tolerable. And no way was he ready for dating again, or even hookups—not yet.

He hadn’t been a coach long, just a few years overall and two years at this school. He’d almost qualified for the Olympics during his last year of competing, but a lot of guys almost qualified and that counted for little in the job market. Still, he’d gotten a position as an assistant coach, and then wrangled the coaching job here at this college. At thirty-one he liked to think his relative youth helped him connect with his team. They looked up to him like an older brother. He was respected, a good coach, a good teacher. And he’d gotten good at fending off the hero-worshipping puppy love sometimes offered him by his swimmers. He wasn’t interested in guys, and he wasn’t interested in taking advantage of his authority over his swimmers.

Buzz had worked out in the weigh room earlier, keeping his body in shape. He didn’t swim as much as he used to, because of his schedule, and truth be told, he was starting to pick up a taste for whiskey during those nights alone, just enough to get tipsy, so these days he ran to burn the calories and lifted weights to keep himself trim and fit. He wanted to avoid becoming one of those coaches who let themselves go after they stopped competing.

Buzz always went back to his office and washed off the sweat in the small adjoining shower alcove. He soaped his testicles carefully; aside from his daily jack-offs, his balls had been sidelined for some time now. And since—Don’t shit where you live—he considered both the female students at the college and his coworkers in the Athletics Department to be off-limits for dating and sex, his balls got a lot less release lately than they were used to.

Buzz dried himself quickly. The time was after five. Time to head home, maybe pick up some salad fixings, a frozen pizza, and a fresh bottle of whiskey on the way. He checked his naked body in the mirror next to the trophy case. Not bad. Pretty good, in fact, a body most guys would love to have.

Buzz pulled the blue T-shirt over his head. He pulled on a pair of socks, then wriggled into his tight jeans, sans underwear. Zipped up. His nuts ached even more once they were trapped in their denim cage. Yeah, he’d have to go home, have a drink, and beat his meat while the pizza cooked. Maybe he’d beat off a second time before bed.

“Hi, Coach,” came a voice from his doorway. “Got a minute?”

Shit!—Hadn’t he locked the door? A young man, mid-twenties so probably a graduate student, stood in the doorway, holding a small, flat cardboard box.

Buzz sighed inwardly. His exciting evening of pizza, whiskey, and jacking off would have to wait. “C’mon in.” Buzz sat down behind his desk and pointed to the opposite chair. Hopefully he could get rid of this guy soon, whoever he was. “Have a seat. What’s your name and what can I do for you ...?”

“I’m Tom.”

“What can I do for you, Tom?”

“It’s what I can do for you, Coach. What if I offered you a way to train your swimmers at a whole new level. You can train them so they’ll obey your every instructions every time. You tell them to arch their arm more in a stroke? They will do exactly that, each and every stroke from then on.“

Buzz tried not to roll his eyes. Was this guy crazy? Should he play along?—Humor the guy? “I’d say that’s too good to be true, Tom. What’s the secret?”

“These.” Tom put the cardboard box on the desk. The box was only about two inches tall, several inches wide. To Buzz it looked like a small pizza box, and his stomach grumbled softly. He hoped this conversation wouldn’t delay him from his own pizza much longer.

Tom opened the top. Buzz leaned forward so he could see over the lip of the box. Inside were what looked like a handful of old coins. He leaned back in his chair. “I’m sorry, Tom. I’m not a philatelist.”

Tom lifted an eyebrow.

“I mean, a coin collector?” Buzz tried again.

Tom smiled. “A philatelist is a stamp collector. A coin collector is a numismatist.”

Sigh. “Okay, whatever. But still—“

“And these aren’t coins, Coach. They’re artifacts of a—”

“Uh-huh. What does that have to do with me?”

“They generate an effect that causes extreme suggestibility. If we combine them with simple training instructions and commands, which we could develop into scripts, then we can—”

“Tom, I don’t understand a word of what you’re saying.” This part Buzz didn’t miss during the summer: dealing with the eggheads who infested academia; they always thought everyone would find their narrow area of specialization the most interesting topic of conversation ever if they could just be made to understand it. And, wow, weren’t academic focus and just plain crazy sometimes awfully hard to tell apart? “Listen, let’s cut to the chase. What’s this all about?“

“To be honest, Coach, I’ve always had a thing for swimmers, and—”

Sigh. “A sexual thing?“

“—When I learned what these artifacts can do, I knew I had a way for us to help each other.”

Definitely crazy, and a pervert to boot. Buzz kept his voice low and stern, the voice of a man not to be fucked with. “I think you’d better leave, Tom, right now, before I call security.”

“Let me show you what they can do, first. You’ll thank me after.” Tom tilted the box so that Buzz had a better view of the artifacts. He found his gaze drawn to one, which seemed to be making some tiny motion.

“And all I ask in return,” Tom continued, “is for you to call me Master Tom ...“

Buzz awoke when the bare-bulbed overhead light came on. Impossible to tell in this windowless room, but assuming his captors were adhering to a set schedule, it was now morning, a new day. Another day in captivity.

He knew exactly where he was. He was in one of the unfinished basement rooms in his own house. The narrow bed was new—he hadn’t done anything with the basement rooms, never needed them, had no furniture in them; someone had brought this bed in specially for him. Still, he recognized the adjoining bathroom and the bare concrete floor, so he knew where he was. Yes, definitely his own house.

On the floor next to the simple narrow bed, barely just a mattress on a frame, sat a small smart speaker device, a low twelve-by-twelve cardboard box, and the last of a stack of underwear. Buzz knew what was in that box, and he didn’t like it—didn’t like it at all. The tiny wireless surveillance cameras mounted in each of the ceiling corners were new additions. Buzz didn’t like them either; no matter where he was in the room, his captors could watch him at any time, were likely watching him now. Perverts!

He rolled off the mattress and staggered his half-asleep body into the tiny semi-finished bathroom, which was barely big enough for a shower stall, toilet, and sink with a mirror mounted over it. The toilet was his immediate need, thanks to his urgent bladder. He pushed down the front of yesterday’s underwear, a pair of blue backless briefs that he had slept in, the only clothing he was allowed. Well, he’d worn jock-straps and swimsuits often enough that the skimpiness of the briefs didn’t bother him at all. He aimed his penis at the bowl and began to piss.

Finished and flushed, he tucked his cock away, rinsed his fingers by habit in the sink, and strolled back into the makeshift bedroom as he wiped the moisture on his briefs. Who the hell wore backless briefs that left their bare ass cheeks hanging out? Jock-straps were one thing—those were utilitarian—but briefs with no butt-covering to them were probably something perverts wore. Or liked looking at. Buzz flicked his eyes at the surveillance cameras. He was fit, all trim muscle, good-looking, and naked except for these butt-less briefs that were only a little better than being naked. He bet his deviant captors watched him a lot.

At the foot of his bed, Buzz stretched his shoulders and then began his jumping jacks. Calisthenics were his morning routine now, since he had nothing else to do. Even if he was going to be trapped in this room, he was still going to stay fit. Pushups, burpees, crunches, running in place. He had no way to measure time, so he had to count iterations and steps. He worked up a sweat, felt good; he enjoyed the exertion. He liked looking good, and the one good thing about being a captive was that he had plenty of time for his morning exercise ritual, which he performed almost obsessively.

He didn’t remember much about the first days—he’d been unconscious for most of that time, or maybe drugged somehow. Only recently had he started to remember what happened during his days. Well, part of what happened, at least.

He eyed the door as he exercised. No obvious dangers prevented him from just walking over there and trying the knob. Maybe the door wasn’t even locked. No, the dangers were almost inconspicuous: a group of four small disk-things taped to the frame around the door. Buzz didn’t know what those were. All he knew was, if he went too close to them, they put him down hard and fast. He’d blacked out into those memory-less voids far too often in the early days before he learned to avoid them. They must have been radioactive, or ultrasonic, or impregnated with drugs, or something.

He ended with some yoga stretching. He wasn’t sure when he had learned yoga, but somehow these poses came naturally to him. Maybe he’d seen a video or something? Being confined in this room meant stretching was important.

If he’d counted off the reps right, his routine probably took an hour. He didn’t have anything else to do, so time was not in short supply. Finished, Buzz wiped his forehead with a hand and padded back into the bathroom. A quick shower. A brisk toweling-off. He thought about wrapping the towel around his waist, but why bother?—After all the times he’d woke up from those voids nude, all the showers and shits he’d taken, his captors had already seen him naked more times than he could count. He just hoped the images didn’t end up online somewhere that the college administration would find them.

Buzz hung up his towel and padded bare-ass back to the bed. His captors had inadvertently given him a way to count days. When he’d woken up here the first time, a stack of seven matching backless blue pairs of underwear sat next to the bed. A fresh pair every day, assuming his captors kept the lights and his windowless days synchronized to the outside world, meant a week had passed. At the end of one stack, a fresh stack appeared the next morning. Now he picked up the next-to-last pair from the third stack. That meant he had been here a day short of three weeks. Three weeks!

With nothing else to do, Buzz made the bed, tucking in the sheet efficiently, then sat on the edge of the mattress to wait. Usually the one captor he always saw would have already left a tray of food for him on the bed during his shower, but today nothing. Obviously they were running late. He had counted off the required repetitions of everything, hadn’t scrimped, so he wasn’t running early. Should he be worried? If something happened to them, he wouldn’t be able to escape this room. Worry about that later, he scolded himself, though now that his world was limited to this one bedroom and bathroom, what else did he have to think about? Maybe he’d jack off while he waited, give the watchers a show? Since he had little else to do during his days but exercise and jerk off, his captors had seen that show many times before, too.

“Good morning.” A voice from the smart speaker.

Buzz felt ... oddly passive. Some great heaviness seemed to settle on him, muffling his thoughts. He looked up at a random surveillance camera. “Good morning, sir,” he said back.

“Have you completed your morning exercises?”

“Yes, sir,” Buzz replied, as the passiveness spread into a kind of wooziness, like being dazed or drunk—but also like being hyper-focused and horny, except that the eager horniness was diffused through his entire body and all his thoughts instead of just concentrated in his gonads. He felt oddly disconnected from his body, a feeling he had come to know well. He angled his face toward the door. There was the cause: One of the disks was open, little petals rotating in a slow-motion dance of blue and silver-white. Buzz was not far enough away to escape it but was away enough that the effect was light.

“What are the Three Rules?”

Buzz knew this—he knew that he knew. If only he didn’t feel so ... “I serve Master Tom,” he heard himself say. Well, of course he did. So obvious.

His voice continued. “I serve the team.” Yes, he was part of the team, and if a team member had a need, any need at all, he would gladly do anything he could to help ...

“I serve the artifacts.” He would keep them a secret. No one except those who’d been trained with them could know ...

“Good,” the voice said, pulling his attention back to the speaker. “It’s time for you to have a reward, don’t you agree. Why don’t you open the box.”

Buzz felt a swell of pride; he had done something well enough to earn a reward. But the box—he didn’t like its contents. He was so horny, though—the effect always made him so fucking horny, like a teenager again. He didn’t like the box, but when he was this horny—

He found his body slipping off the bed, kneeling before the modest cardboard box, opening it. He knew the contents well: a realistic six-inch dildo, a beginner-sized butt plug, an L-shaped prostate massager, a small bottle of lubricant. He knew somehow that over the last three weeks each of those sex-toys had been inside his ass several times, and somehow that seemed both wrong and exciting.

The voice again: “Pick the one you want.”

Buzz’s hand reached for the bottle of lube and the prostate massager. The longer stalk of the L-shape would go up his ass, while the shorter foot would fit along his perineum to poke at the back of his ball sack.

“Good choice,” the voice said, a hint of a snicker. “Proceed.”

Buzz felt his body lie back on the cool concrete floor. The lube was open, and his hand smeared the clear liquid over the stalk of the massager. His legs rose, knees curling toward his chest. The backless briefs meant his asshole was exposed. His thoughts formed a quiet No-no-no, too far in the background to stop what was happening as his hand positioned the massager at his butt and pushed. He felt the knob-end press into his asshole. Another push and the knob slid through. An easy motion slid the rest of the stalk into him, into place.

Suddenly the massager in his ass began to buzz and vibrate gently. Remote-controlled, he realized anew, certain somehow that he already knew that. The quivering and pulsing felt weirdly good in his sphincter and against his balls, and it seemed to touch something up inside his ass that spread a pleasure through him. His cock was hard in the briefs.

“Put your legs down,” the voice told him, and Buzz did, lying stretched out on the concrete, cool under his back and butt. The massage-tremors changed pattern, sending renewed frissons of bliss through him. “Take out your cock.”

Buzz fumbled at the crotch of his briefs, managed to decipher the logistics of pushing down the front enough to expose his erection.

“Touch your cock. You may jerk off.”

Buzz’s hand circled his dick, pumped at it hard and quick. Another change of vibration pattern in his ass, and the knob inside him hit that joy-spot repeatedly. Buzz’s throat choked out a sound. Some part of him knew he should feel humiliated, nearly naked and jacking-off with a toy up his butt while his captors, probably men, watched him—but something seemed exciting too, the feeling of knowing he had pleased his captors, the intoxicated way he felt whenever those coin-things opened up, at least the times he could remember. Most of his body and his thoughts were snarled in the sensations, and everything felt so damned good. He couldn’t resist the forces sweeping his body toward the inevitable. He wondered what a real dick up his ass would feel like, how it would compare to the toy. That thought and the resulting flush of arousal caused his cock and balls to ignite with pleasure. Then his orgasm broke over him, sending him flying into clouds of bliss at the top of the sky, everything forgotten except the eye-scrunching euphoria that filled him to bursting, filled him, filled everything, peaked, paused, paused ... and then inevitably began to fade.

Buzz returned to himself, his body spent and limp against the floor. Warm ball-juice covered his belly and chest. He blinked up at the nearest surveillance camera, panting, and grinned.

The vibrating in his ass stopped. “Good boy. Now, go clean yourself up and put your toys away.”

Buzz fumbled his way to standing, shuffled on orgasm-loose legs to the bathroom. He planned to wipe up the cum with toilet paper, but too much of it covered him. He doffed the briefs, turned on the shower again, and stepped inside to rinse away his seed, remove the massager, and wash it.

Cleaned and dried and back in his briefs, he had just tucked the lube and massager back into the box when he heard the door open. That one captor he always saw, a vaguely familiar man a few years younger than Buzz, stood there. “I thought today we should celebrate your progress these last four weeks by bringing you upstairs to have breakfast with me. But first I want you to answer one question. What is my name?” he asked.

Buzz thought about it. Four weeks?—Not three? Now that leaving the room was being offered, did he really want it? And how should he answer the man’s question? Tom sounded familiar but insufficient, not quite right. The man deserved respect, an honorific. What title had the Three Rules given him? “Master Tom,” Buzz said.

The man smiled. Buzz felt great, knowing that his answer had pleased the man.

Upstairs, the man placed a plate of scrambled eggs and chunks of fresh fruit in front of Buzz, and he ate eagerly. Sitting at his very own kitchen table seemed odd. That basement bedroom has been his entire world for so long—four weeks!—he couldn’t quite seem to adjust to being out. The man seemed to be alone; Buzz saw no evidence of anyone else in the house with them. Buzz could stand up, run for the door, and be free. But he didn’t. He sat and ate hungrily.

The man spoke about how well Buzz had progressed under his intensive training. Buzz wasn’t aware of having been trained recently, but he decided that, like learning those yoga stretches, this might have been something that happened during the blank spots in his memories. Master Tom said Buzz had internalized the training quickly and deeply during his captivity, thanks to having no distractions; but they wouldn’t be able do quite the same for the others, whoever Master Tom meant, because they won’t have the luxury of separating the others from their daily lives. The training would work on them, certainly, but slower; the others would need a couple of months to come as far as Buzz had in just a few weeks. Buzz listened and nodded now and then when a response seemed appropriate, and continued to shovel eggs into his mouth so that he wouldn’t be asked to reply.

As Buzz finished the plate, the man placed a folder on the table and pushed it toward him. “Open it.” Buzz did and found the swim team roster for the coming year. If he’d been here four weeks, then classes and team practices would start in about two weeks. Now Buzz understood who the others were. Master Tom had been talking about his swim team.

The roster, a dossier page or two on each swimmer and his stats, and Buzz’s notes about his strengths and areas for improvement. Master Tom wanted to know which members seemed to be the social alphas, the ringleaders that the others looked up to, the ones they needed to train first so the rest would fall in line. Tom pointed to Charlie, the team captain, but Master Tom seemed to dismiss him—yes, yes, obviously the captain, but who else? Well, Buzz considered, the role of coach seeming somehow both familiar and foreign now, returning senior Eadric probably, and sophomore Diego was a good swimmer who always seemed to be an instigator whenever mischief was involved ...

Master Tom made small notes as Buzz talked about each swimmer’s personality. The other man seemed pleased, and Buzz felt happy to be pleasing him. Master Tom pulled the folder away, closed it. He put something else on the table. A pair of running shoes and a pair of shorts. Buzz looked up at him in question. “Get dressed,” the man said. “Your yard needs mowing.”

Ten minutes later, as he knelt over the lawn mower in the garage and filled the fuel tank, Buzz realized this was a test. He could just walk to the neighbors’ house, ask to use their phone, call the police, and report what had happened to him. But, somehow, he didn’t want to. Loyalty? Conditioning? No, he simply didn’t want to do anything except what he’d been told. Whatever Master Tom had done to him, Buzz found he liked it, liked the way he felt under the influence of those coin-things—artifacts Master Tom called them—and he wanted to feel that way again soon. The spell they wove around him made him intensely horny, made him feel both muzzy-headed but also focused, as if someone else was doing his thinking for him and for once he knew exactly what do to, which was what Master Tom told him to do. And if Master Tom wanted to share this whatever-it-was with the rest of the team, Buzz thought, nodding, that sounded like a good idea. Fuck, those little assholes could use some training, needed more discipline, needed something that would distract them from chasing tail and drinking beer when they should be practicing and staying fit. Yeah, he thought Master Tom’s interest in the team would work out for the best for all of them.

Buzz stood up, smoothed out the shorts he wore, and pulled the starter cord. The mower roared to life.

Mid-morning, not yet noon, so Buzz had been right about his captivity mirroring outside-world time. As he pushed the mower back and forth across the front lawn, waved to a passing neighbor, Buzz enjoyed the heat of the sunshine, the caress of a faint breeze, on his bare chest and legs. He wanted to do a good job on the lawn, wanted to please Master Tom, wanted Master Tom to reward him by sending him again to that so-horny place in his mind where nothing mattered except getting off. Buzz’s cock was half-hard just from thinking about it.

Buzz sweated through the front yard, the back yard too. Task completed, he put the mower away, closed the garage. As he entered the house through the garage door, he thought he heard something from the basement. Muffled sounds.

Master Tom appeared at the head of the basement stairs. “Come with me.”

Buzz followed him downstairs—only instead of turning one way into the makeshift bedroom where Buzz had spent the last four weeks, Master Tom turned the other way, toward the other unfinished basement room.

Buzz expected the room to be empty, and it was, except for plastic tarp, a single kitchen chair in the middle of it. In that chair sat a body: male, young, athletic, T-shirt, jeans, expensive-looking trainers, a hood over his head. From the way the man was sitting with his arms pulled back behind the chair, Buzz suspected restraints—perhaps that pair of handcuffs from his nightstand, the ones his ex-wife, that bitch, had liked to play with sometimes? The slouched posture and head half-rolled to one side suggested he was unconscious, asleep, or—

And the stench! Awful! Some mix of piss and shit? Buzz couldn’t help recoiling from it.

Master Tom stood behind the seated youth. “You had a visitor yesterday.” He pulled off the hood with a slow flourish.

Charlie? Yeah, he’d let his hair grow out over the summer, and a ball-gag distorted his mouth, but that was definitely Charlie, the captain of the swim team. He looked dazed, as if drunk or drugged. Had Master Tom drugged him? Or had those disk-things done this to him? Was that what Buzz himself looked like when the disks pulled him down hard into one of those memory-less voids?

“He came to your door,” Master Tom was saying, “yesterday morning. Said he wanted to hang out with you, catch up after the summer. You were in the middle of one your training sessions, of course, and I was not going to interrupt that. But I thought: Why not get a head-start on him? He’s captain of the swim team, so he’s got to be one of the first we bring in anyway. Think of how much smoother the process will go with both you and Charlie leading the others? So trusting—I invited him in, told him you were in the basement, and he followed me down here like a lamb before I introduced him to one of the artifacts. Sadly, I wasn’t prepared for him to drop into our hands ahead of schedule, and I didn’t have time to rig up a second training room. I had to improvise.“

“Is he okay?”

“Oh, yes. The first exposure to the artifacts seems to have hit him harder than most. Instead of a trance, it induced a near-comatose state; he lost control of his muscles, including his bladder and sphincter, and soiled himself. He’ll get acclimated to the effect over time, like you did, but he’ll need time. For now, I want you to take him into your training room and get him cleaned up, get him in bed for the next step.” Master Tom turned to walk away, and over his shoulder: “I left some things in your sink; you’ll know what to do with them, I’m sure.”

Buzz thought about it. Clean Charlie up? Sure, he could do that. Wasn’t that one of the rules?—Serve the swim team. He’d done that sort of thing now and then when one or another of his swimmers had gotten drunk and called him, or the bar they’d overdone it in called him. He’d gone and picked them up, no questions asked, no judgment, gotten them cleaned up, bedded them down on his living room couch, more like a big brother than a father figure. He’d even done it for Charlie himself last year, twice, when the swimmer went through a brief party-boy phase after the breakup of some kid-intense love affair or other. The second time Charlie had drunkenly hinted he wanted more than to just sleep off the alcohol on Buzz’s couch, hinted he wanted to join Buzz in his bed for a night of what Charlie called fun—Well, secretly flattered at the interest, Buzz gently said no and told the swimmer he wasn’t into guys. Which he wasn’t, not really. And anyway, Charlie was in the process of passing out right then, so the possibility of fun was gone anyway. The couch worked just fine after all.

He could do this for Charlie again. “Let’s get you on your feet, champ,” Buzz said to the semi-conscious youth, lifting his torso off the chair. As he suspected, Charlie’s wrists were handcuffed behind him. Master Tom was taking no chances, Buzz decided. But handcuffed wrists made the task of lifting the youth trickier. Buzz wouldn’t be able to get Charlie’s arm across his shoulder. Okay, a fireman’s carry would have to do. Buzz bent and pressed his shoulder to Charlie’s abdomen, letting the younger man’s body drape over his shoulders. Then Buzz stood, hoisting the unresisting body aloft. Awkward, but do-able. Angling carefully through the door frame, he headed for his training room.

In the bathroom that he had come to know so well. Buzz managed to put Charlie’s feet on the floor, eased the body off his shoulders, and sat him on the closed toilet seat. Master Tom had said something about the sink: in it, Buzz’s battery-powered shaving clippers with a number-two guard, and a pair of scissors. The scissors he couldn’t understand, but the clippers seemed obvious: Charlie’s summer-shaggy hair had to go.

Buzz flicked on the clippers. The loud rzzz told him the battery was fully charged and ready. Buzz glanced at himself in the mirror. His own hair had been clipped recently too. He didn’t remember that—didn’t know whether Master Tom did it or ordered him to do it to himself like he usually did. He didn’t remember, didn’t need to remember. He had a job to do and he needed to do that instead.

Buzz bent Charlie’s loose-rolling head forward; he pressed the droning clippers to the back of the swim captain’s neck, drew them up along the scalp, moving the ball-gag strap aside when the clippers needed to pass. The clippers bit into the hair; chunks fell away, leaving a quarter-inch layer of hair behind. Rzzz-rzzz-rzzz, and then he tilted Charlie’s head to one side. Rzzz-rzzz-rzzz, and most of area around one ear was stubble now.

“Nnn-uh?” Charlie jerked his head, seemed to be rousing from his stupor.

Buzz held Charlie’s skull steady with one hand, murmured, “It’s okay, champ. I got you. Hold still.”

Maybe Charlie was aware enough to recognize his coach’s voice, to trust him, because he stopped trying to move.

The clippers growled on, and Charlie’s hair fell away. In moments Buzz had the swimmer’s scalp decimated to a quarter-inch everywhere. He stepped back, put the deactivated clippers into the sink, and surveyed his handiwork. Looked good.

But he still had more to do. Charlie still needed to be cleaned up, and that meant his soiled clothes had to go. The T-shirt would be a challenge; Charlie’s arms were handcuffed behind him, and Master Tom had left no key.

Maybe the scissors? Master Tom must have left them here for a reason—this reason.

Buzz snipped at the neckline of the T-shirt, a two-inch cut. He gripped each side of the cut and tugged. Shriiip! The fabric tore to the waist. A series of snips from the armhole to the frontal rip, then repeated for the other arm, and the T-shirt came away from Charlie’s torso.

Buzz knelt and pulled off the youth’s right shoe and sock, then repeated for the left ones. The piss-soaked and shit-burdened jeans and underwear would be tricky. Best to load him into the shower stall first—control the mess. “Let’s get you up,” Buzz said, pushing Charlie’s torso upright. Hands under the younger man’s arms, Buzz lifted him to standing. He staggered the young jock over and into the shower. Cleanup would be easier there.

Buzz propped Charlie against the back wall. Checked his jeans pockets; no wallet, keys, or phone—Master Tom must have already taken them. Buzz wasn’t looking forward to pulling those messed pants down. He needed to do this quickly. So, the scissors to the rescue. Kneeling, starting at the ankle, Buzz cut his way up the outside of Charlie’s jeans, taking care not to nick the skin underneath. He reached the hip, made sure to cut through the briefs too. With his hands on Charlie’s hips, Buzz turned his body so that he could get to Charlie’s other leg and cut his way up. Yuck! The piss- and shit-soiled jeans and underwear came away between Charlie’s legs in one bundle that Buzz pushed to the far corner of the shower floor. He’d deal with the wreckage later.

Okay. Water on. The spray was cold at first, and Charlie mumbled an incoherent protest of shock around the gag: “Nurph!” His head seemed to clear. He tugged at the handcuffs, chewed at the ball-gag. “Rmmph!”

“Be still,” Buzz coaxed as he fingered the ball-gag clasp at the back of Charlie’s skull.

Charlie seemed to calm down, barely coherent but recognizing his coach.

Should he? Probably not, but Buzz opened the gag clasp anyway, pulled away the strap, popped the ball out of Charlie’s mouth.

“Co’sh,” slurred Charlie, the closest he could get to saying Coach.

By now the water had begun to warm quickly. Buzz patted the jock’s shoulder. “It’s okay, champ. Let’s get you cleaned up.” Buzz eased the swimmer under the spray and reached past him for the soap. The water smashing over Charlie’s abdomen and crotch and down his legs would take care of the piss. Coach started running the soap over Charlie’s shoulders and back. He turned the swimmer, and the water struck Charlie’s buttocks, blasting free shards of caked shit and liquifying some of it into a brown slurry that ran down the jock’s legs and into the drain. Disgusting, Buzz thought, but he needed to do it—Master Tom had told him to do it, and Charlie needed him to do it. Serve the team.

Buzz soaped his hands, rubbed them over Charlie’s buttocks, clearing away the brown smears. The younger athlete’s ass cheeks were rounded, solid as granite covered by warm skin. Buzz sent the blade of his hand into Charlie’s crack, pushing away bits of shit, smearing the suds in deeply. His fingers brushed Charlie’s hole—and Charlie pushed his ass back against the hand, as if wanting those fingers inside him. Buzz remembered that time Charlie’d been drunk and hinted he wanted to share Buzz’s bed, sexually, offered his body to him. Hmm. Buzz tried a little penetration, one soaped finger pushing past the snug opening, going one knuckle in, two. Charlie moaned. Somehow, that seemed very hot, and Buzz felt his cock stiffening in his shower-soaked shorts. Charlie’s head rolled on his shoulder toward Buzz’s, mouth barely parted and dangerously close to Buzz’s. Somehow they kissed, briefly, clumsily, because Charlie was maybe halfway conscious—but Buzz was suddenly aware of how long his sexual dry spell had been since the divorce, how much he missed intimate touches. Jacking off had gotten him by, but now he felt something awaken in him and in his shorts, his balls tingling, cock stiffening a little. He wasn’t gay, not really, but he very much wanted to see where this led.

Charlie pulled away, an awkward lurch, and turned his back. Buzz wondered what he had done wrong, and then he smelled the urine and saw the yellow swirling into the drain. Charlie’s bladder must have been full again; he was pissing against the far wall, and the swimmer blushed with humiliation when, over his shoulder, he saw Buzz watching him. “It’s okay, champ,” Buzz assured him. “Do what you gotta do.”

Charlie turned part of the way back to indicate he was finished. Buzz quickly soaped the jock’s swim-muscled legs, just enough to clean away any lingering piss or shit, noting that the youth’s cock was maybe half-erect. He shut off the water. He’d deal with the wreckage of Charlie’s clothes later, after ... What? Well, after whatever came next, of course.

Buzz pulled the towel, still a bit damp from his own earlier shower, and began to rub it briskly over the swimmer’s body. The kid’s cock, when he got to it, was fully hard now, and Buzz found Charlie was looking at him unreadably. Buzz had seen hard cocks before, in locker rooms and a three-way once with his college roommate and a girl, and had even seen them spit cum during high school circle-jerks. Charlie’s ... Buzz had a sudden wonder of what it would taste like, feel like in his ass ... Wasn’t that one of the Three Rules ... I serve the ... What would it taste like ... If he leaned forward just a little, opened his ...

Holy fuck, Buzz scolded himself, pulling back. What had he been about to do?

Buzz stood quickly. “Okay, champ, let’s ...” What? What should he do next? Master Tom had said to get him cleaned up, get him in bed for the next step. Okay. “Let’s get you to the bed.“

One arm around Charlie’s torso to steady him, Buzz guided the younger man into the bedroom, toward the bed. Charlie fell into it heavily, since his arms were still cuffed behind his back, and face-down. Charlie moved his legs, maneuvering himself: shoulders down, ass raised up, knees apart. A position of submission and sexual receptiveness.

Buzz sat on the edge of the bed. Those ass cheeks seemed perfect. Buzz wasn’t gay, though maybe he wasn’t as straight as he thought, and he needed to see where this went. He ran a hand over that ass, a finger into the slot, feeling the lingering shower-moisture as he flicked his fingertip back and forth over the puckered hole. Charlie moaned, reminding Buzz the ass was attached to someone. “You want it?” Buzz asked, and Charlie half-nodded, moaned again, a pleading sound. Okay, consent was given.

With quick efficiency Buzz kicked off his shoes, dropped his damp shorts and underwear. He climbed onto the bed, between Charlie’s knees. The younger swimmer pushed his butt slightly toward Buzz again, and the coach stared at it. Buzz’s cock was hard. How something like a cock could fit into a hole that small seemed to defy physics, but Buzz needed to make it happen. How? Lube would probably help. He skuttled off the bed. From the cardboard box by the bed, Buzz retrieved the bottle of lubricant and returned to the space between Charlie’s legs. His cock seemed to be homing in on that hole, and Buzz slathered his cock with a heavy coating of the slick liquid.

One hand on Charlie’s hip, the other steadying his cock-shaft, Buzz pushed forward. The ass-ring resisted, then seemed to relax, give way, and open itself as Buzz’s glans slid inside. An inch of shaft, then two inches more. Holy fuck, Buzz thought, awed by the furnace-heat and tightness of being surrounded by Charlie’s ass.

Buzz’s hips started to pump. Short strokes at first, getting used to the squeeze, so different from a loose pussy, and then longer strokes. Beneath him, Charlie moaned, so Buzz knew he was doing something right.

Buzz felt as if he was being swept up in something, some new step being taken ... The Three Rules ... I serve ... What? Master Tom? Master Tom hadn’t told him to do this. No—the team ...

I serve the team ...

Yes, so obvious now, everything clicking into place. Moaning Charlie was horny, needed to be fucked, so Buzz needed to do that for him. His strokes took on confidence. He wasn’t gay; he was serving the team. Charlie pushed his ass back somehow to meet Buzz’s pumps.

Buzz felt something, a familiar spaciness, a feeling of floating outside his body. He glanced to the door. Sure enough, two of those round things were open and shining, a slow spin, spreading their spell into the room. Charlie made a sound, and his expression seemed out of it, lost in the effect and maybe already unconscious. Buzz could hold out a little, let the effect pass through him without submerging him, at least for a little while. But he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold out for long.

“Relax. Focus on my voice.” Master Tom’s voice from the bedside smart speaker. “Deep trance. Deeper. Like sleep. Deep sleep. Deep trance.”

Charlie’s body was slack, and only Buzz’s grip held him up. The younger man was completely gone—asleep, deep trance, like Master Tom said. Buzz wondered distantly how long until the same thing happened to him. Everything already felt so far away and inevitable, out of his control.

“Obey. Focus on my voice. Deep trance. Deeper. Obey.”

Buzz felt himself slipping. How long? Not long now.

“Make him cum.” Master Tom’s voice again. “His training will lock in deeper after he cums.”

Okay, Buzz had his orders. He pumped that unresisting ass with vigor. Under the distancing influence of the effect, taking action was easier now that he had been told to do something. He reached underneath and stroked Charlie’s still-hard cock. Less than a minute later, Buzz felt a sudden wetness coat his fingers: Charlie had cum. Buzz felt oddly triumphant, knowing he’d made the younger man shoot. Buzz held up his messy hand for the surveillance cameras to see.

“Good boy. Now, finish fucking him. You want to cum too.”

Now Buzz could focus on his own pleasure. His hips pumped fast and deep. He felt the artifact effect intensify—a glance at the door—another of them was open now, and swirling slowly.

“Cum and focus. Cum and obey. Cum and deep trance.”

Would the training lock in deeper in himself too once he’d cum too? Obviously. He pushed the question aside—he’d cum a lot under the influence over the last four weeks, so what was one more? Too late anyway. Buzz was too close—his balls—his cock—

“Cum and deep sleep. Cum now. Sleep now. Deep trance now.”

Now flipped him past some point of no return. Buzz was cumming, cumming in Charlie’s ass, cumming, body tensed, then going limp on top of Charlie, as the world faded, darkness covering his senses. Buzz felt himself sinking down to the bed, down into the effect, and down into ...