The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I

She smoked too much; Jessica knew that. She’d tried vaping, lozenges, patches, gum.

At 21, she’d been smoking since 13, sneaking cigarettes from her mother, learning how to get them from the older boys, hanging with them, hooking up. Eventually.

She probably drank too much, too, or used to, but that’s not what caught her attention, walking past the brick archways leading to the student union.

She was so close to graduation, she thought to herself. Two more semesters. 30 hours, then I’m out of here.

Truth was, she didn’t enjoy the college life.

She partied hard as a freshman, but then she settled down in her Sophomore year, having already played the part of a party girl in high school, where she had the reputation of being a bit of a slut.

Earned, maybe. Six boys a year, six boyfriends a year, might have been too much, but they were boyfriends, and boyfriends needed attention. Attention she liked to give.

She’d stopped drinking for the most part.

She had to laugh about that, slowing down the year she turned legal.

One weekend a month, now maybe.

She had to keep her grades up, maintain her status of responsibility, being the RA on her floor.

She still lived on campus, while most of her friends, what friends she had, had long moved off campus, to share apartments, student houses, or even to live alone.

She made good grades, not great, but she kept her scholarship with an even 3.5. Marketing.

Not a bad gig, enough to get her settled while she looked for a husband.

Yeah, she wanted one.

Oh, she had her small entourage of boyfriend, her fuckbuddy roster.

But she knew that couldn’t last, and it wasn’t what she wanted.

Which was something stable in the form of a husband.

She hadn’t met him yet, but she wanted him. Badly.

Two kids, too. Maybe two point three.

What did you do with point three of a kid?

Students rushed by her as she stood in front of the glass window, looking at the flyer.

A pink flyer with black writing.

TRYING TO QUIT? NEED HELP? THE OTHER QUITTING AIDS NOT WORKING? she read under a black and white photo of a woman clutching the sides of her face in anguish.

The layout could stand to use her input, she thought. At the very least I can check them out, see what’s going on.

She continued reading the flyer, the smaller print.

Some company, a local company, offered a trial run of a new product they’ve developed, yet another nicotine patch or something very close to it. The flyer left the details vague. Definitely not a nicotine patch, though, Jessica realized as she kept reading. They made that point very clear.

LIKE NOTHING YOU’VE EVER USED BEFORE

She looked up the number and address.

A campus number with a campus address, one of those spaces just off the union, rented by companies looking for a temporary University presence.

What the hell, she shrugged. She could skip lunch.

She really needed to quit smoking; Jessica knew that.

Arriving at the office, making sure of the number above the mirrored glass door, Jessica checked her appearance briefly, sighed at her long, uncontrollable, waving red hair, opened the door, and walked inside.

II

She’d half-expected the intake office to be closed for lunch, but a young woman, older than Jessica, in her late 20s or very early 30s, sat behind the counter, wearing dark, serious glasses, round silvery hoops in her ears, with couple of jeweled studs hanging above the hoops. Almost shoulder length, dark hair framed her heart-shaped face, at once daring and professional, makeup applied tastefully and restrained. The woman completed her look with a navy blazer over a white blouse, matching a navy skirt, which rose just above her knees, dark with hose.

When she stood, her hips welled, and her bust showed against her white blouse, not so much straining against it as filling the space of the clothing.

Three top buttons, undone, accentuated her daring look, showing the dark blue lace of her bra.

“I’m Cecilia,” the woman said warmly. “I’m, well, I’m the head researcher here, but I’m taking over for Jen. Lunch time, you know, but it’s been a slow day, and I don’t want to lose a prospect. A participant, if I can help it.”

Something about Cecilia relaxed Jessica.

She found herself readily explaining why she was there, her concerns for her health, how hard she’d tried in the past to quit, all to no avail.

Cecilia’s forehead creased in concern.

“I think you’re just the candidate for us, 18 – 29 is what we’re targeting. You say you’re 21? Fantastic! We just need to run a few tests, take your blood pressure, check your blood, and give you a basic checkup. I’m a doctor, you know. A real MD. I’ll need to contact your health care provider.”

Jessica just used student health services.

“Great, I just need a few signatures from you and then I can get your records.”

Jessica spent the entirety of lunch filling out forms asking the usual weird, intrusive questions about depression, firearms, sexual orientation, and sexual activity, jogging to a full run on a treadmill, monitors attached to her heart. Cecilia took her blood pressure and drew her blood.

She read Jessica’s form and frowned.

“That many?” she asked.

Jessica looked guilty.

“It must be hard on campus. Tobacco-free.”

“I know all the places to sneak them. We all do.”

It was a point of pride among campus smokers, especially admin staff and custodial workers.

And rogue RAs.

“I should have your results very soon. Maybe by the end of tomorrow. I’ll call you once we get everything in.”

Cecilia smiled broadly at Jessica.

“I’m so glad you get to be part of this!”

Jessica moved to shake her hand, but Cecilia hugged her.

“This really will be a good experience for you. Early results have shown so much potential.”

That was on Thursday.

She hurried to her next class, a one-thirty class getting off at two-fifty. But her instructor always cut it short by fifteen minutes.

She had just enough time to suck down a Benson & Hedges behind the column of a raised walkway, obscured by old and tangled holly.

III

Tuesday morning following, she got a text from an unknown number.

Your results are in, it said. We have time this afternoon to go over them and begin treatment.

That was fast, thought Jessica.

She hadn’t skipped her one-thirty class in ages, an ethics class she’d avoided taking for years, taught by a short professor who mumbled into his long beard for the whole hour and twenty minutes of the class.

All she got was something about norms and mores.

The girl behind the counter wasn’t Cecilia, but she smiled warmly, even affectionately at Jessica when she walked through the glass door.

“Are you Jessica? I’m Jen. I’ll let Ceci, Cecilia, Dr. Faro, know you’re here.”

Jen must have been a freshman, she looked like a child to Jessica, whose only figure compared favorably to Cecilia’s. That is to say, Dr. Faro. Jen’s dark hair barely touched her shoulders, and two thin braided strands ran from the part in the middle of her forehead, rounding her head like a narrow crown.

She had a button nose, rosy cheeks, and fresh, pink lips unadorned by lipstick.

A brass stud pierced her left eyebrow, and a brass ring pierced her septum, a small hoop hanging from her nose.

When she walked to the water fountain to bring Jessica a cup of water, Jessica saw she wore baggy, faded jeans, cuffed above a pair of brown leather sandals with cork soles.

She wore a loose pink t-shirt covered by the huge round head of a smiling cartoon kitten.

Jen held a white paper cup of water out to Jessica, who sipped it, noticing Jen’s nipples behind her shirt.

Braless.

With tits that small, she didn’t need a bra, Jessica thought to herself, rather cruelly but with a hint of jealously in her own misgiving against future sag, regretting how her nipples chafed against her shirt if she went without, and chafed against the straps when she did.

Still, sisterhood and all that.

She hated herself for her brief judgment.

Jessica returned Jen’s beaming smile, perhaps not as wide, perhaps not as genuinely felt.

But she meant well, seeking forgiveness for her secret crime.

Then Cecilia opened a door to the side.

With another one of her huge smiles, she invited Jessica to her office.

IV

Cecilia, Dr. Faro, explained everything very clearly, keeping her eyes on Jessica’s eyes, making sure the girl understood the simple directions.

“You’ve used nicotine patches before, so it’s no big deal. The big difference, the difference that you’ll notice right away, is that it won’t burn when you put it on. Oh, we’ve conducted hundreds of tests, and there’s been no skin reaction at all. None whatsoever to any of the girls who’ve worn the thing.”

That piqued Jessica’s curiosity.

“Girls? Just women? No men, then? Or is it only the girls who haven’t had a reaction?”

Dr. Faro kept her eyes on Jessica’s, not breaking contact for even an instant, and if she blinked, Jessica didn’t see it.

“Our company’s founder markets her products exclusively to women. She feels that women’s needs are, well, underserved. It’s been her life’s goal to rectify that.”

“I see,” said Jessica. She straightened up in her chair, adjusted her bottom on the seat. “I mean, I totally agree. It’s so nice to –“

Celicia stood up suddenly.

“Here, I’ll put this one on for you. Do you mind lifting your shirt? Or I can put it on her arm, near your shoulder.”

Jessica wore a light pink sleeveless blouse, buttoned with rounded collars and little frills where the sleeves would be.

“It’ll be seen though. I don’t know about you, but I don’t like everyone knowing my business. Want me to put it on where no one can see it?”

Jessica nodded.

“Hm hm.”

Dr. Faro walked around Jessica, standing behind her.

Jessica smelled an odd perfume, nice, sweet, and fruity. Like strawberries and vanilla mixed with. Almonds.

Jessica crossed her arms to pull up the back of her shirt, but Cecilia said, “Do you mind very much just taking off your shirt? I’ve found the patch works best high on the back, just below the neck.”

It was a weird request, but Jessica felt she understood.

She unbuttoned her blouse and dropped the blouse so that the back hung midway to her hips, showing the backs of her shoulders to the fragrant researcher.

Celicia’s fingers brushed lightly against Jessica’s skin.

Then she felt the cool sensation of the patch being placed on her.

Dr. Faro was right. It didn’t burn.

It froze.

But only for a few seconds.

Cecilia held up several square packages of the patch, colored bright pink.

“You can wear each one for 24 hours. It’s okay to wear more than one at a time, but I wouldn’t overdo it. I wouldn’t wear more than two at a time, if the desire to smoke really gets to you. One should handle it, though. You can put them on in the morning. I’ll give you seven, and you can come back next week for more. That way I’ll be able to run some checks on you. Let us know immediately if you feel any side effects. Dizziness. Nausea. Anxiety. If you feel your heart beating too fast. You know, the usual stuff. It hasn’t happened, but we don’t want you to be the first.”

Jessica took the handful of patches from Cecilia, tucked them into her purse, and turned to leave.

“One more thing,” Dr. Faro said. “I guess I should have mentioned this before, but how’s your sex life? Are you very sexually active? With a man?”

How much was active?

Every night?

“A little,” Jessica answered shyly, having been a little dishonestly modest in that regard on her forms.

“The thing is,” replied Dr. Faro. “You might feel a certain, well, decrease in desire. A certain amount of sexual lethargy. You won’t want to have sex. At least for the first week or two. But after that, you’ll be as good as new. I mean –“

“You mean I’ll want to have sex again.”

Cecilia smiled charmingly.

“That’s it exactly. You’ll want to have sex again.”

Then Jessica turned to leave for the final time.

“You’ll want to get those moles looked at too.”

Jessica frowned, suddenly worried.

“Just have your dermatologist take a look. I can recommend one, if you don’t have one. Nothing to worry about, I’m certain of it. It’s just that I’m a worry wart, no pun intended.”

Dr. Faro laughed, and Jessica felt strangely relieved by the woman’s laughter.

V

Jessica lay against her pillows, texting James, her usual fling, and the longest running member of her roster. Obviously not husband material, he seriously lacked something Jessica could never quite put her finger on. Not ambition, but not not ambition. Gravitas, she thought, enjoying the sound of the word. He carried something, an attitude, a too casual attitude with him, never allowing anything to matter too much, including her.

Which rankled.

It seriously, seriously rankled.

Oh, but he could.

In that area, he could.

Where it mattered sometimes the most.

Are you touching yourself, baby?

Jessica just stared at the phone.

It had become something of a ritual, one she had fallen into eagerly, to try to get each other off over the phone, texting and sending pics, flirty to downright raunchy over the course of the evening, but now Jessica’s heart just wasn’t in it. The words running across her chat leered at her, foreign, strange. Remote.

They lacked even the semblance of meaning.

Of course she was touching herself, she couldn’t help but touch herself, who else would she be touching if not her own body? Julius Caesar, did this guy even bother to think?

Her elbow touched her side, her fingers scratched the back of her other hand, she wiped her eye.

So yeah, she was touching herself.

Not long after, she said goodbye, had to go, and put him on silent.

Not long after that, thinking about what Cecilia had said, she opened her phone to her bookmarked porn sites.

Not her usual gig, porn under most circumstances left her disinterested, vaguely amused. But not without a sense of excitement, a tingling between her legs, that sudden sinking or pitch of the gut, just above her mound.

She liked looking, from time to time.

She liked fucking herself, flicking her clit wildly to the vision of some guy just ramming a slut from behind, her ass up and taking it. She liked to look at the men, when the mood hit, their muscular bodies and long, thick cocks, swollen with blood, ready and trembling to shoot white cum all up inside a pretty girl’s cunt, splatter her backside, or baste her tits and face in cum, drenching her as she smiled, and gulped, and smiled.

She’d do that sometimes.

Not often.

But porn worked.

There were lots of lesbian sites too, whenever she looked online, but she steered clear of them, interested only enough to know that wasn’t what she was looking for.

Straight porn worked.

It did work.

She always felt something.

Even if just a lewd pull towards the unabashed nudity of it all.

But not now.

She might as well have been looking at old black and white photos of the moon landing.

Then she really did touch herself, reaching down to slip a hand under her jeans, touching the tip of her clitoris.

Nothing.

Deadsville.

Which was fine by her.

Later that night, after making her rounds, she turned out the lights, turned on her noise machine, and slept the sleep of the just.

VI

The whole week passed like that.

She didn’t mind it at all. In fact, she loved it.

She found her mind much more alert, attentive, receptive to knew ideas, information, knowledge.

She whizzed through her Spanish class, never a strong point with her, but now the language just rolled off her tongue, she had no problem understanding the readings, conversing with her fellow students, most of them female, bright and alert, answering in correct Spanish the questions of her instructor, a Latina who like to sit on the front of her desk in tight, short skirts, her blouse unbuttoned to show her cleavage, her full, ample bust.

For the first time since her sophomore year, she enjoyed her college life.

For the first time since her partying days, she talked excitedly to strangers, sober now, laughing at some silly joke or prank.

The girls on her floor shouted at her when she walked by, and she smiled and shouted back.

Oh, and she hadn’t had a cigarette since last Thursday.

She had almost forgotten about that, about smoking.

Funny, she used to be a smoker.

I wonder why, she thought. It smells horrible.

James stopped texting her.

And she didn’t bother answering the other boys.

She just wasn’t interested. Not in that sort of thing.

Lying back in a long tee, she stretched her legs. Spreading her thighs, she touched her pussy, hesitantly, softly.

Maybe. Maybe it was there.

Just the tiniest hint of a tingle.

But she pulled her hand away, tucked her pillow under her head and fell in the wandering dreams of the lotus-eaters.

A few days later she was back in Ceci’s office, Cecilia. Dr. Faro. Answering her questions and taking off her shirt for another patch.

VII

Cecilia’s knuckles drifted along the sides of Jessica’s back, then she used the flat of the fingers, her fingertips, and her palms to feel along her skin, feeling her moles.

Jessica breathed in the scent, the wonderful fragrance of strawberry and vanilla, of sandalwood and almond.

Dr. Faro’s – Ceci’s – hair hung just above her shoulders, her dark hair cropped a little short maybe, but its full body spread out from the woman’s shapely face, so perfectly made up with just the right amount of lipstick and lip gloss, eyeshadow, and mascara. Just the barest layer of foundation to smooth an already perfect face, Jessica thought.

Some women just know how to pull it off.

She held the front of her shirt against her breasts, holding up her bra, which the doctor, for some reason, needed to unclasp.

“I called Grace,” Dr. Faro, Cecilia, said. “She can come by next Tuesday to take a look.”

Dr. Faro held Jessica’s long red curls in a bundle of hair and tossed over the girl’s freckled right shoulder.

“You have such lovely hair,” she said.

Then she put another pink patch on Jessica, who shivered at the cold contact, so momentarily freezing.

“Thank you,” Jessica replied, somewhat meekly.

Ceci’s breath blew warm against the back of Jessica’s neck.

“Sex?”

Jessica’s head turned to look at Cecilia, surprised at how close her lips were to the doctor’s.

“I’m sorry?”

“Your sex drive, how’s your sex drive this last week?”

“Nonexistent, Ceci – I mean, Dr. Faro. But it’s not a bad thing. I feel somehow much more alive, happy, just content to look and listen and learn. I’m so good at learning now. I feel like I can ace all my classes.”

Dr. Faro smiled at her client.

“I mean, I’ve always been a good student. But now I feel like a super good student.”

Dr. Faro’s smile didn’t budge.

“Super,” she said. “That’s great.”

Then she grew serious.

“But be careful. Previous trials say it’ll come back this week, at any time. In a big way, too. If that happens, when that happens, don’t panic. It’ll subside to normal within a few days, a week or two at the most.”

Dr. Faro, Cecilia. Ceci clasped Jessica’s bra behind her, and Jessica quickly put her shirt back on.

“Grace is my dermatologist. She wants to check you out.”

VIII

Every morning Jessica put on a new patch, turning her back to the mirror from the side to see if any of the patches had left the red mark so common with nicotine patches.

Nothing. Maybe the faintest outline of a pink square. Otherwise just her freckles and that scattering of moles Ceci fretted so much about.

Every day passed like the one before, and Jessica spent her time in a weird, buoyant mood, elevated. Not unlike those bouts of horniness she’d suffer just a little more than a week ago, but without that persistent, needy edginess.

Something like the ecstasy she used to take, but clearly less sensual, less exuberant.

She worked on her assignments, wrote long essays in a single sitting, worked on her social media marketing presentation, and read.

Mostly books.

She avoided the screen that week.

Tuesday night, Wednesday day, Thursday, Friday, Saturday.

She’d touch herself occasionally, just to see.

Nope.

Maybe. Just the faintest echo of the memory of a tingle.

Sunday.

Nope.

Monday.

Oh god, Monday.

IX

It hit during Spanish.

Paloma Garza, the Latina sitting on her desk, legs slightly parted, her plump, plumpish, thighs flattening on the desktop, her smooth skin wrapping the round knobs of her knees, the crease between her thighs barricading that precious glimpse of panties.

Sra. Garza smiled at Jessica, sitting in the second row, behind wide, pink-framed glasses, dark pink tortoise, wearing a dark green skirt and just about the cutest pink blouse Jessica ever saw.

It was the last few weeks of the Spring semester, the weather was warm, and the girls all dressed in shorts or skirts.

It came first as a smell, a scent, an overpowering aroma rushing over her.

Pungent, spicy. The smell of blood, metallic and organic.

The fragrance of the body, sweat, the odor of pit and thigh, barely concealed by perfume, deodorant.

Scent became light, and light fell on Paloma, sitting on her desk, her thighs slightly parted, her breasts, her tits swelling behind her pink blouse, unbuttoned to show the line of her cleavage, her breasts, her tits pressed together, squeezed one against the other by the black lace of her bra.

Jessica realized she was slowly humping her chair, thrusting her cunt forward and down against her seat.

She wanted to touch her clit so bad; she knew it must be rock hard.

Moisture pooled between her thighs, fluids dripped from her cunt, her pussy.

She sat back, looked down, and saw the small puddle.

My god.

What?

She remembered Ceci’s warning.

If she stayed, if she stayed sitting in that desk any longer, she knew she would prop her legs on the desk, and rub herself, spreading her legs, showing her pussy for all the class to see, for Señora Paloma Garza to see.

She quickly gathered her books and backpack.

“Lo siento, Señora, estoy muy enferma.”

Jessica ran to the restroom. She couldn’t make it to her room, she couldn’t go another ten seconds without fucking herself, without fingering herself to a climax.

The odors hit again as soon as she burst into the women’s room.

Above the urine, above the perfume, above the smell of crap and dirty tampons, it floated; rare and intoxicating it floated undefinable and present, the odor of woman, of womanhood, separate or perhaps the sum of all odors in the restroom.

She threw open the door of the middle stall, the only unoccupied stall, yanked her shorts down with her panties, and pushed her fingers into her wet hole, taking only enough time to luxuriate in the feeling of her hot, slippery lips under her soft pubic hair, red like her hair, redder than auburn, but not cherry red.

Not that red.

She heard the women in the stalls on either side; she could smell them, almost she could see them, feel them, so close. She spread her feet wide, both sneakered feet pulling her shorts and panties wide, and her fingers sank into her.

She wanted to enjoy this.

She wanted to feel and enjoy the sensation of her pussy in a way she rarely did, of discovering and admiring her lips, her depths, her wetness, and her warmth with her fingers, to worship her cunt with her fingers, but she needed to come so bad.

So bad.

She jammed her fingertips against her rock-hard clit, extended like the bullet of a handgun.

And then she did.

She came.

She beat one wall of her stall with the palm of her hand, throwing her head back, trying to muffle her scream with her other fist, but.

A girl could only do so much to hide fucking herself.

Not in a restroom.

Not in a full restroom.

A girl couldn’t do anything to hide an orgasm like that.

She yanked her shorts and panties up over her legs, her hips, grabbed her backpack off the hook on the door, and fled, head down.

She didn’t wash her hands.

She just couldn’t face meeting a woman eye to eye.

When she stepped off the elevator onto her floor, it hit again.

An all-girls floor, hallways filled with the stench of wine, beer, vodka, vomit, incense, marijuana, perfume, and girl aroma.

Fifty rooms and almost fifty pairs of vaginas.

Of pussy.

Of cunt.

The smell of it filled the hallway.

She locked the door behind her, threw herself on her bed, yanked her clothes off and plunged her fingers into her hot hole, so wet, so welcoming.

After her third orgasm, she began to take her time, relaxing into the magic of her sex.

She parted her lips with two fingers, enjoying the shivering sensation, the immense almost aching pleasure of surrounding her hole with an orchestrated affection.

Her pussy felt so good.

Pussy felt so good. So good.

So warm, so wet, so soft, so hot.

So hot.

She opened her laptop to her bookmarked porn.

She wanted to look at cock when she came, staring at the hard chests of the male actors, their hard cocks spewing out white come, but she stared at the open cunts of the females, the women, fucking their hot, curved asses at the cocks behind them, or lying on their backs, so lovingly wrapping their long, curved legs around the man, who only pumped and pumped and grunted.

They sounded so, the men, so.

Piggish.

Completely oblivious of how much a woman could give them.

But the women, oh god. The women.

How could a murmur, a moan, a sigh hold so much longing?

She spent the rest of the day, far into the night, masturbating herself continuously to the moving images of lesbian porn, closeup shots of wet vaginas in long oval frames of fat, wet, gleaming labia, spread wide and lascivious or holding themselves thin and demure around the precious hole, and, sometimes, sometimes the dense fur of pubic hair, sometimes dark, sometimes blond, and sometimes even red.

Jessica listened to the endless sucking noises, the kisses and kissing, the wet sound of tongue and finger inside steaming wet holes. The endless feminine susurration of aching need, never quite fulfilled, of shuddering orgasms demanding one more shudder.

She sucked on her fingers repeatedly that night, and when she fell asleep, tasting her pussy, she knew, she just knew, that she had to taste it again.

But another girl’s pussy.

Not just her own.

She had a whole floor full of it outside her door.

She closed her laptop, turned on her noise machine, and fell into lewd dreams of soft feminine limbs and warm feminine bodies, of heavy breathing, suspirations of lust, and high-pitched cries of delight.

Yeah, there. Oh yeah, there. There.

X

She woke up far past midnight, in a sweat, anxious and desperate for a cigarette.

She could open her window, lean out, sneak a smoke.

At this hour nobody would smell it; nobody would see her.

A sharp pang of panic shot through her.

She’d thrown all her cigarettes away, soaking them in water first, a week ago.

She’d tossed even her hidden cigarettes away.

Not even a butt remained.

That initial horniness had passed, vanished, leaving her mind clear but full of doubt.

She wasn’t into girls.

She’d known that since high school.

More than a few boyfriends had wanted to see it, wanted to see her do it with another girl, had wanted a threesome.

She gave in one time.

Almost.

The other girl started touching her, feeling her up, but she pushed her away, jumped up and fled.

It just didn’t seem right, and she didn’t like the look in the guy’s eyes.

He dumped her later, took up with the other girl.

But she’d already found someone too.

A good guy, in his own way.

Soft-spoken, but demanding. Taught her to take her time with sucking him off, was patient. She’d listen, attentively, making sure to do it right, and then he started doing it right, she took his cue, told him where to lick, what to suck, where it felt good, so good. When to go soft and when to go hard, real hard.

She’d look at him, blowing him, staring into his eyes as he came down her throat, learning to swallow everything, learning to enjoy it.

And she did.

That look in his eyes, soft and proud, full of vulnerable cunning.

But they broke up, too.

All that masturbation, all that horniness, my god. Fucking herself in the bathroom like that.

And tonight. God.

What was she thinking.

She didn’t like girls.

She didn’t like their personalities, not really.

She knew them too well.

Dr. Faro had told her it would be like that, she suddenly realized.

Told her to expect it.

What she didn’t expect was that arousal around women, other women.

Digging through her purse, she felt loose tobacco at the bottom, and then she touched it, a loose cigarette, hidden at the bottom of Carmex, lipstick, spare change, dollar bills, makeup, her thin, metal, gold-colored lighter, and sundries.

Pulling it out with trepidation, she found it bent but intact.

And eminently smokable.

She flung open her window and lighted the cigarette, pulling on it in a long, slow drag of an expected relief that never came.

Instead, she began coughing and choking immediately.

Her mouth and lips burned on contact with nicotine, and she hurriedly ran to her toilet to throw the offensive white stick away.

She spun around her room, spraying air freshener.

She bent her arm over her shoulder, touched her patch, and exhaled, worried.

Was it the patch?

I never liked lesbian porn before. I never liked women before. Not in that way.

They’ve never turned me on.

I mean, the thing did suppress my sex drive.

Maybe it did something to my brain?

A worried look crept across her face as a rising panic began to swell through her.

“Take it off, take it off, take if off!”

She jumped at the sound of her own voice.

She didn’t talk to herself like a crazy woman jabbering down the sidewalk.

She was sane.

But she knew she was right, she needed to take it off, and she needed to take it off now.

She felt along the edge of the pack.

Just about to pry the edge loose, she saw another shining pink package on the night table by her bed.

So pink on the night table, hot pink.

But then, she suddenly understood.

She laughed at her naiveté. Of course, she lived on a woman’s floor, she’d masturbated in the women’s restroom, her Spanish class was full of female students, just one or two boys when she thought about it.

She was just so turned on, was all.

She was just so turned on, anything made her horny, added to her arousal.

She wanted sex like she used to want cigarettes, and women surrounded her.

Her arousal bent towards them, so to speak. Used them in place of anything else. In place of men.

Her nerves were shattered, she knew that, and she still wanted that cigarette, even though the thought of it made her feel ill, nauseated, sick.

She remembered Dr. Faro’s advice to wear more than one patch if the desire to smoke became too strong to resist.

Like now, for example.

She laughed aloud again.

The very idea.

God, I mean.

It was so stupid.

What am I, five?

A patch that turned women queer.

I really need to go back to sleep.

She opened the shiny pink package, peeled off a translucent pink square patch, lifted her T-shirt up, then removed it completely. She felt for the patch already there, then placed the other patch, the new patch next to it.

She shivered at the cold sensation, but as the patch warmed, she suddenly recalled the light contact of Dr. Faro’s fingertips on her skin. Cecilia’s fingertips. So soft and tender.

Dr. Faro, Cecilia. She’s been so kind to me, Jessica thought as she drifted back to sleep. So nice. Ceci.

And pretty, too.

So pretty.

Jessica woke up with her fingers in her wet snatch, grinding away at her hand to an intense orgasm.

Instinctively, almost instinctively, she raised her fingers to her lips to suck on her juices.

Pussy, she thought.

God, I love pussy.

She snapped fully awake.

What? But.

Oh, god. No.

Why not?

She stayed in her room all morning, skipping her classes.

So she could masturbate to loud lesbians in screaming orgasms.

Then she left for her appointment at Ceci’s place.

She had so many questions.

XI

Ceci stood facing Grace with Jessica between them, her shirt and bra off, tossed carelessly to the carpeted floor.

Grace stood taller than either Ceci or Jessica.

Her hands traveled the slopes and valleys of Jessica’s body attentively, skillfully.

Sensually.

“You need to take off your shorts, dear. And your panties.”

She did too. She really did need to take them off.

Ceci pulled her shorts and panties down, Jessica’s ass and pussy shivered to the sudden thrill of it all, so nude in front of these two women, so lovely and warm.

Jessica stood between Ceci and Grace, perfectly and splendidly nude, freckled, her red mane falling in dense waves around her neck, separating at her shoulders to fall in sheets over her back and over her front.

Ceci parted her hair where it covered her pale breasts, her milky tits hanging like large pears from her chest, soft globes so sensitive at the tips, her red nipples hard and erect.

Grace, standing behind Jessica, spoke up.

“Her moles are fine. Nothing to worry about. Let’s set an appointment, though.”

Jessica exhaled with relief.

“Spread your legs, honey,” Ceci said softly, almost whispering, her breath blowing hot on Jessica’s face. “Grace is going to fuck you from behind, and I’m going to suck on your hot, sexy cunt.”

Ceci pulled back and smiled affectionately.

“See? I told you you’d have sex again.”

Ceci knelt between Jessica’s thighs.

Jessica shifted her feet outward; Grace gripped her upper body, under her arms to steady her.

She leaned, covering Jessica’s neck with soft kisses, and nibbled on her ear.

Jessica heard Grace inhale deeply.

“God your hair smells so nice.”

One of Grace’s hands drifted down the full length of Jessica’s curved side, caressing her hips and the round swell of her ass, full and wide, before moving her hand between her crack, her ass crack.

And then her finger, Grace’s middle finger, slipped inside her, spreading her fat, hot, swollen lips with her two long fingers, parting her pussy from behind while her thumb felt for and found the rim of her asshole.

Jessica jerked, but Grace held her steady.

“That’s it, girl,” she nibbled into her ear. “You’re good. So good.”

The tip of Grace’s thumb dipped into her anal ring.

“You’re going to eat so much ass today. So much girl ass. You ready to learn girl? You ready to ace ass-eating?”

Jessica gulped, then she nodded slowly.

She was ready.

Jen tapped on the door and entered.

“I locked the door and closed for the day,” she said, raising the bottom of her black T-shirt and pulling it over her head.

Jessica licked her lips, seeing the girl’s small tits, her areolas large like two tarnished half-dollars.

The girl looked so different today.

She wore dark purple, almost black lipstick, black mascara, makeup brightened almost to white tapering to the natural flesh of her lower neck and chest.

Her dark shoulder-length hair was now cut or styled in a disheveled, jagged bob, dyed jet black.

Ceci stood up to plant her mouth on the front of Jessica’s neck, long slow kisses that would leave their marks.

Then she dropped to her knees.

When her lips touched Jessica’s mound, the coed screamed.

“Oh god, yes.”

Ceci grabbed the back of Jessica’s ass, pressing her forward against her mouth while she nibbled and sucked on Jessica’s clit, urging her tongue down to touch Grace’s fingers, lock inside the girl’s hot cunt, wet with Ceci’s spit and her own fast-flowing juices.

Jen, pulling down her denim skirt, stepped up to Jessica, still in her socks and black boots, calf-high on three-inch platform heels.

Jen, shorter and smaller than Jessica, leaned up to kiss her with her dark lips.

Jen’s lips pressed against Jessica’s, but Jessica didn’t move, her lips stayed tight, locked against intrusion.

This was it.

Neither Ceci nor Grace had kissed her, directly kissed her, kissed her openly on the mouth.

For all her excitement, for all her arousal, for all her need to be eaten, and to be eaten by a woman, for all her need to kiss, to taste, to lick pussy – and ass, girl ass – Jessica resisted the kiss.

Had this all begun with a kiss, she might have felt otherwise.

So turned on, so heated, enflamed, the kiss would have served as a preliminary, a beginning, the first spark of dried tinder primed to ball into open flame.

But now it seemed much more than that.

It sealed her.

Confirmed her.

To kiss a girl, another girl, to kiss a girl years younger than she, to kiss a freshman, while another woman, an older woman fucked her pussy and ass with her fingers and thumb, while a third woman, an older woman, kissed her pussy, her maddening pussy, tongued her hard clit mercilessly, could only signify one thing.

Lesbian.

She was a lesbian.

No sooner had that word flashed in her mind when she shuddered, acknowledging the full truth.

Her lips parted, and Jen’s tongue slipped between hers.

Jessica’s head swirled, her mind lurched, and her tongue tasted Jen’s dark lipstick, the first time she’d ever tasted lipstick in a kiss.

It wouldn’t be her last time.

She came, and came hard, with Grace’s thumb deep in her ass, her fingers clutching her pussy, Ceci’s mouth sucking her clit, Jen’s hands molding her tits, and her tongue, Jen’s tongue, deep in her mouth.

She came, and came hard, pinching the hard nipples of the girl’s small tits, large apricots in her hands, pinching her nipples and then holding her hands, her palms, flat against Jen’s breasts, her boobs, her tits, as she came, and came, and came.

Moments later, Jen climbed on a small sofa, a loveseat pushed up against the wall of Ceci’s office.

She knelt on all fours and raised her ass, her small round ass, to Jessica, who understood immediately.

She dropped to her knees, creeping towards the girl’s cunt and ass.

“Go ahead, pretty girl,” Jen said, “Eat my ass. Lick my dirty cunt.”

She felt a woman’s arms and hands on her back, stroking her flanks, her hips, her ass softly.

Ceci knelt beside her, leaning into her ear, whispering encouragement.

“Oh god, girl. You’ve got this. You really do. I know you’re just going to love going down on Jen. And look! The way she’s ready for you, kneeling like that, your nose is going to be right in her asshole while you lick her nasty, dirty cunt, so hot and wet for you. Won’t you like that, pretty girl?”

Ceci’s tone teased her, but Jessica couldn’t mistake the genuine affection, the real tenderness in her teasing.

A new wave of desire surged through Jessica’s body.

An electric thrill.

Arousal.

Hunger.

For pussy, for girl mouths, and girl lips, and girl ass.

“Lick around her, first,” Ceci instructed.

“Don’t just kiss or lick her pretty lips,” advised Grace, “seduce her, seduce her pussy, seduce that ass. Let her know what your tongue’s going to do with her.”

Jessica’s tongue swept over Jen’s small ass, so round, a plum, two plums mashed together, joined by the succulent crevice of her warm ass.

Grace and Ceci spread her cheeks, showing Jen’s dark asshole, dipping inverted into her bowels.

It looks clean, Jessica thought. Not that she cared much.

“Lick around her, lick around her hole first, make sure she’s clean.”

Ceci lifted her head towards Jen.

“Nasty girl, nasty dirty girl, did you clean before coming to work?”

Jen whined.

Ceci turned to Jessica.

“Better make sure.”

Jessica cleaned Jen’s ass, reveling in the strange taste, so forbidden, so nasty, so dirty, sweaty, and oh god, crappy just a little, an sharp unpleasant taste that fueled her excitement, and she tongued Jen’s asshole, touching her tongue-tip to dip inside, to dip inside the warm and lovely, the hot and nasty hole.

Jen shuddered, squealed, and screamed.

“Oh fucking god, yes, there. Please, yeah, there, oh god there.”

Jessica was licking Jen’s pussy, nose in her ass, smelling her rich, earthy, soiled odor, so hot and womanly.

“I lied about one thing, though,” Ceci said to Jessica. “You’ll never go back to normal. Your sex drive. It’ll never subside. And you’re always going to want to fuck. Not boys though. Girls. You’re always going to want to fuck them.”

Jessica smiled into Jen’s pussy, tickling her asshole with the tip of her nose.

Paloma had a fiancé, she knew that. Jessica had seen them together, and the instructor sometimes mentioned him.

But Jessica also knew that Paloma smoked.

And wanted to quit.