The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Monday:

Karen stretched languorously, yawned and opened her eyes.

A moment later she sat bolt upright with a small cry, clasping her arms over her nude torso.

She was in Nick’s bed, completely naked except for Dr. Abaddon’s pendant.

Memory flooded back, and as it did, she relaxed. Wow, she thought, what a night! I haven’t let myself go like that since—ever, I think! She grinned. Beside her, Nick stirred, rolled over and sat up. “Good morning, Karen,” he said, smiling that smile of his. “How do you feel?”

“Starving,” Karen responded. Her stomach rumbled, adding emphasis to her words. “And I’d sell my soul for a cup of coffee.”

Nick stood up and threw on a robe hanging over a chair near the bed. “I don’t think that will be necessary,” he answered. “I’ll see what I can do.” He padded out toward the kitchen.

Karen got up and looked around for her clothes. After a brief search, she found them; they were scattered around the bedroom along with Nick’s. She dressed, feeling deliciously wicked. Just as she finished, Nick called, “Coffee’s on!”

Karen headed in the direction of his voice. She hadn’t seen the kitchen the previous night; it turned out to be a small but efficiently organized room just off the living room. Sink, refrigerator, stove and cabinets ringed it, and there was a small round dining table with several wicker chairs. When she came in, Nick was just setting two cups on the table.

“There’s more if you want it,” he said. “I’m fixing scrambled eggs, if that’s okay with you. And the bathroom’s over there,” he gestured toward a door, “if you need to go, or if you’d like a shower.”

“Thanks,” Karen said. She didn’t feel like a shower, but she used the toilet, then washed her face and hands. When she came back out, the eggs were ready.

Karen ate ravenously and gulped her coffee. Everything tasted wonderful. She felt incredibly alive.

It was only with an effort that she asked Nick to take her home. Rested and fed, she could feel herself getting horny again. She’d have loved to stay and have another helping of Nick—but no, she reminded herself, she still had Tuesday’s lecture to prepare for.

After Nick dropped her off at her apartment, Karen got to work. She made good progress for a while. Presently, however, she found her attention wandering. The words on the paper in front of hers seemed to dance, and she found herself drifting into daydreams.

Hell with it, she decided at last. I’m going out. Shopping.

And she did. Her rented car was still parked in the apartment complex parking garage where she’d left it Sunday when she’d gone out intending to find a quiet restaurant and ended up at the bar where she’d met Nick. She took it and drove downtown.

She found herself in a seedy area dominated by cheap magazine stores and places advertising “fantasy” clothing. From the window displays, the fantasies involved were the sort of thing the dignified Professor Tuttle could be expected to scorn.

Or could have been, at any rate, as recently as last week. Now, she found herself examining the outfits on display and picturing herself in them. She imagined dropping in on Nick and flashing open a heavy overcoat to reveal a skimpy costume underneath.

And why just Nick? An evil idea began to form in Karen’s mind.

No, I couldn’t, she argued with herself. I shouldn’t. I mustn’t. I won’t. . . .

But the temptation was irresistible. She went into the store. When she came out, she was laden with packages and a clerk was carrying several more.

Back in her apartment again, Karen tried on her purchases. She could hardly believe some of the things she’d bought. Picturing what she planned to do with them made the blood pound in her ears. Some people were in for a big surprise, she gloated.

She didn’t get back to her lecture notes. By the time she was finished playing with her new toys, it was evening. She fixed herself a light supper and settled in to watch TV. She watched several sitcoms, laughing till the tears came at the inane dialogue and the ridiculous predicaments the characters kept getting into. Then she showered and undressed. Restless, she couldn’t fall asleep right away; she dozed off at last watching a late-night talk show.

Tuesday:

Karen woke up sweating and damp between the legs. The dreams had come back, stronger than before.

The clock radio on the table, whose alarm had jolted her out of her overheated sleep, was playing an old song: “That Old Black Magic.” The lyrics made her think of Dr. Abaddon and his “magic charm.” By reflex, her hand went to the chain around her neck.

She let it drop. Whatever was happening to her, magic had nothing to do with it. She wasn’t going to give Abaddon the satisfaction, even the unknowing satisfaction, of taking his “powers” seriously. She’d see him in hell first.

Karen got dressed and ate a hurried breakfast. She had some preparations to make before this afternoon’s scheduled presentation. She smiled. If everything went as she hoped, she’d make a much bigger impression than she had last time.

The auditorium was packed. Dr. Tuttle was gratified to see that; usually, her lectures against superstition attracted smaller audiences, even taking into account the fact that a lot of the attendees were there only in hopes of being able to score points off her.

Nick was there, she saw. He took a seat down near the front, just as he had the last time. When he saw her looking in his direction, he smiled; she flushed in response, and had to struggle to keep her mind on what she was doing.

Her talk went predictably, at least at first. She went through the usual points, and got the usual reactions from her listeners. About midway through the scheduled lecture period, she decided it was time to liven things up.

“Magicians,” she stated, “rely on misdirection to keep their audiences from spotting what they’re actually doing. That’s why they use ‘magic gestures’ in their acts—to draw the eye where they want it to go, and away from what’s really happening.” She smiled. “It’s also why they hire pretty girls as assistants, and dress them in skimpy costumes.”

She reached down to where she’d hidden a small CD player and turned it on. Brassy music blared forth—“That Old Black Magic.” She’d meant to use another song today, but the radio that morning had inspired her: considering the subject of her planned talk, this tune was perfect for her performance. Moving to the beat of the music, she raised her hands to her head and vigorously tousled her hair, undoing its bun and letting it flow out and down.

Then, as her audience gaped in disbelief, the respected Prof. Karen Tuttle began to strip. Swaying to the music, she peeled off her suit jacket.

“The audience’s attention is drawn irresistibly to the magician’s assistant, who’s as much a part of the act as the magician’s tricks,” she lectured calmly as she unbuttoned the jacket’s buttons, revealing a tight laced-up bodice underneath. As she worked herself out of the jacket’s arms, she continued, “For many, the glamorous girl is the real point of the show. They watch her instead of the magician.” Her smile grew wider. “Of course, it helps that audiences for this kind of act are usually mostly male.”

Professor Tuttle held her jacket out at arm’s length and let it drop to the floor. Her watchers could see now that the tight black bodice was trimmed in white fur.

A low murmur began to build.

“Even those who know what the assistant’s real purpose is can’t help themselves,” the professor continued. “They don’t mind being taken in by sleight of hand if they get to look at a beautiful woman in scanty clothing. You can understand that, I’m sure.” Her tone was teasing now.

Cheers and whistles came from men in the audience. Now this was a lecture they could get into!—not to mention get off on. Grinning guys urged Professor Tuttle on, chanting, “Go, Professor, go! Go, Professor, go!”

The men’s enthusiasm turned her on. Playfully, she purred, “Want to see more?”

“Yes! Yes!” came the answer. “Go, Professor, go!”

Karen reached for her skirt and unbuckled its belt. Then, as she shimmied the garment over her hips and down her legs, she resumed speaking in her academic voice. “By allowing themselves to be distracted from what the magician is really doing on stage, the members of the audience become part of the act, part of the magician’s deception.”

The skirt slid to the floor and Professor Tuttle stepped out of it. She was wearing a pair of black bikini briefs, which matched her bodice and sheer stockings and contrasted with the polished white spike-heeled pumps she had on. “No one feels deceived, because they understand that what they’re watching is entertainment. As long as they are entertained, the audience is willing to suspend disbelief, just as viewers of a movie or television show do.”

By now, the audience was roaring with approval. More than roaring, Karen observed: from where she stood, she could see at least several helplessly staring males who were busily beating off, heedless of the fact that they were doing it in public. Pleasure surged through her at the thought that she’d been able to make them forget themselves that way.

And she wasn’t done yet!

“More?” she prodded her audience.

“Yeah! Yeah! More! More!” they panted. “Go, Professor, go! Go, Professor, go!”

Karen laughed in delight. “How can I refuse, when you ask me so nicely?” Bracing herself on the lectern, she bent and removed her right shoe, then tossed it into the crowd. She grinned when she saw that Nick had caught it. The left shoe followed a few seconds later.

She extended her right leg and slowly peeled down the stocking covering it. When it came off, she twirled it for a few seconds before tossing it after her shoes. She did the same for her left leg.

When she straightened up, she began unlacing the tight black leather bodice. Before long, it was off, tossed away, leaving her large breasts bouncing freely with Dr. Abaddon’s pendant swinging between them. The cheers from her watchers were mixed now with groans and squeals of raw animal pleasure and the sounds of ragged breathing.

She reached down to peel away her bikini briefs.

Suddenly, the auditorium doors banged open and several uniformed campus security officers raced in. As they advanced on the stage, boos and catcalls greeted them.

That didn’t stop them. The campus cops closed in on Professor Tuttle. One of them removed his uniform jacket and bundled Karen into it. Then the lead officer addressed her sternly: “Professor Karen Tuttle, you are under arrest for public indecency and disturbing the peace.”

A flushed Karen Tuttle replied meekly, “Yes, sir, officer,” as handcuffs were clamped around her wrists. There didn’t seem to be anything else to say. The excitement she’d felt while peeling and prancing on stage was slowly fading, allowing her rational mind to revive.

God help me, she thought as the cops led her away, what did I just do? What’s happening to me? She was genuinely frightened—and yet, a part of her reveled in the memory and longed to do it again.

The university rent-a-cops had no real authority to hold Professor Tuttle. As was standard procedure, they turned her over to the local precinct, where she was booked and deposited in a holding cell alongside a motley assortment of hookers and other petty criminals.

The sun was setting when a police officer appeared at the door of Karen’s cell. Gesturing at her, he announced, “All right, Professor, you can go. Your bail’s been paid. Just don’t leave town, all right? You’ll need to show up for court.” He opened the door and beckoned her to come out.

With as much dignity as she could muster under the circumstances, Professor Tuttle did so. Still dressed only in the uniform coat the campus cops had thrown over her when she’d been arrested, she allowed herself to be led away. A chorus of cheers and catcalls from the other occupants of the holding area followed her.

“Who posted bail?” she asked.

“That would be me,” a familiar voice responded.

“Nick!” Karen exclaimed. “Thank God!”

An odd expression flickered for a moment in her rescuer’s eyes. “To paraphrase Mae West,” he said, “God had nothing to do with it.”

Karen laughed.

Nick went on. “Sorry I couldn’t spring you earlier. I had to wait for the cops’ paperwork to go through before they’d release you.”

Karen nodded. “At least I’m out. Let’s get the hell out of here, okay?”

They left the precinct house together. Nick drove Karen to her apartment complex. When they arrived, he reached into the back seat and produced a cloth zipper-bag. “Your clothes and stuff are in here,” he told his passenger. “Even the, um, items you threw into the audience; I got everything back for you.”

Red-faced, Karen took the bag. “Thanks,” she said in a low voice. She opened the car door and started to get out.

“Just one thing,” Nick said abruptly.

“Yes?” Karen braced herself for bad news.

Nick guffawed. “You should see your face,” he told her. “I’m not going to hang you. It’s just that several of the guys in my fraternity saw your, ah, performance, and they asked me to invite you to a party we’re having tomorrow night.”

Karen giggled. “Well, why not? I can’t leave until after my court appearance, and after what happened, I don’t think my final scheduled lecture here is going to happen.”

Nick laughed again. “I suppose not.” He pulled a piece of paper from one pocket and a pen from another and scribbled something down. “Here,” he said after a few moments, “the party’s at Phipps Hall. This’ll tell you how to get there from the university’s main gate. Be there at eight? Or should I pick you up?”

“I can manage,” Karen assured him. “Thanks for the offer, though.”

“You’re welcome,” Nick responded.

Karen nodded and got out of the car. She watched fondly as Nick drove off. When at last she turned and went into her apartment building, she was whistling cheerfully.

Wednesday:

Karen woke smiling from a dream of dancing, naked except for high heels and a pair of fans, up on the lecture stage where she’d been arrested. The audience had been packed with male colleagues, fellow members of the American Society of Physical Chemists. In real life, of course, they’d have been shocked to see the straitlaced Professor Tuttle strutting nude on stage, but in her dream, they were cheering, howling and jacking off right along with the rowdy college boys among whom they sat.

She was vaguely aware that only days earlier she would have found such a dream really disturbing. This morning, however, she would have given a great deal to be able to simply turn over, go back to sleep and pick up where she’d left off.

I’ve changed, she realized. Then, after a moment: Who cares? I like myself better like this!

Karen got up and dressed quickly. She chose some of the more conservative items she’d bought on her shopping expedition on Monday, garments she could wear on the street. Even so, when she was done, she looked very little like the serious academic who had come to town only days before.

She inspected herself in the bathroom’s full-length mirror, turning this way and that to get the full picture. The bright red minidress she had on showed off an abundance of cleavage (further emphasized by Dr. Abaddon’s necklace and by the push-up bra she’d chosen), plenty of gracefully curving back, and long, muscular legs, which were additionally complimented by sheer stockings. The spike-heeled sandals she’d chosen did wonders for her ankles and feet. Reaching up, she fluffed her dark hair into a shadowy corona around her head. Green-tinted cat’s-eye glasses, dangling earrings and several bracelets completed her ensemble.

Yeah, I’ve changed, she thought. For the better! Men, she was quite sure, would like her new look. They wouldn’t be able to help it.

Thinking of her new look reminded her of her old one. She spent some time going through the clothes she had brought with her. When she was done, she regarded the jumbled pile of garments and sighed. How dull and dowdy they seemed now.

For that matter, how dull and dowdy her whole life seemed. Years of hard study, then more years of hard and tedious research as a physical chemist—work punctuated only by intervals spent filling out forms. No wonder she’d taken up lecturing against superstition; at least it got her away from the lab and the paperwork. But her speaking tours were just another rut she’d settled into. Before Nick, she hadn’t had a date in almost a year, and hadn’t had sex in longer than that.

Well, that’s going to change, she vowed. And if all those stuffed shirt eggheads in the ASPC don’t like it, they can go fuck themselves.

Karen went out for breakfast. She usually ate light, a muffin or poached egg with a small black coffee and orange juice. Today, though, she ordered pancakes with lots of syrup and extra butter, toast, sausage, hash browns and a super-sized coffee with cream and three sugars. She wolfed it all down eagerly, licking her fingers daintily when it was gone. Nick’s corrupted me, she thought happily, recalling their breakfast together.

After her meal, she went out for a long walk. She took a mischievous delight in putting an extra sway and bounce into her walk. Men watched avidly, and wolf whistles followed her as she moved. One poor guy driving down the street ran a red light while staring at her and almost had an accident; Karen smirked at the sound of screeching brakes.

This was so much more fun than research or lectures, she thought. And you didn’t have to think so much. Thinking was boring.

Before heading back to her rooms, she stopped at a newsstand and bought a paper, one of the Murdoch tabloids. She flipped idly though the stories; none of them really seemed important. When she got to the horoscope page, she stopped.

Professor Karen Tuttle didn’t believe in horoscopes any more than she believed in magic. This morning, though, she sought out the entry for her own birth sign, Capricorn, and read it through. It said, “You have come to a fork in the road. Soon you will make a very important choice, one which will change your life.” On the bottom line, it gave her “lucky numbers”: 6 and 66.

Karen snorted. A moment later, though, she looked at the lucky numbers and thought, Gee, isn’t that interesting. I was born in June of 1966; 6/66. It’s almost like this horoscope was meant for me in particular. I wonder what “very important choice” I’m supposed to make? It never entered her head that a week earlier she would have considered that thought ridiculous.

The Alpha Tau Omega fraternity house was a big old Victorian-style building with arched windows. Curving stone steps led up to a front door shadowed by a stone awning supported by marble columns. A clock tower jutted from the roof. Its clock read ten minutes to eight as Karen Tuttle arrived.

Young guys and girls were heading into the building, talking and laughing among themselves. Karen smiled a bit sadly, remembering her own college days. God damn, what a grind she’d been! You were supposed to have fun at college!

Well, she promised herself, tonight she would.

She headed inside, following the traffic, and soon found herself in a large dining room. Long tables had been set up along the walls, and refreshments covered the tables: everything from coffee and rolls to big bowls of pink punch that smelled suspiciously of alcohol when Karen passed close by. At one end of the room there was a raised area, where a microphone stood between a pair of large speakers. Anyone using the mike would have no difficulty being heard by the partiers—or, Karen suspected, by anyone else in the building.

Nick was already there. He spotted her and shouted, “Hey, guys! The Professor’s here!” Wild cheers erupted from the male partiers

Karen smiled. “Hi, guys!” she responded gaily. “Let’s get this party started!” More cheering greeted her words.

Nick addressed a skinny fellow standing near the mike and speakers. “Hey, Woofer!” he called. “D’you have that song ready?”

Woofer answered, “Coming right up, Nick my man!” He turned to the CD player set up behind the speaker and pushed a couple of buttons. “Ready when you are!”

Grinning, Nick turned to Karen and announced, “You’re on, Professor!” He beckoned her toward the microphone.

Karen stepped up onto the raised platform to the sound of loud whistles and clapping. She took the microphone in her hand; it was attached to its stand by a long, extensible cord, giving her full freedom of movement while she was using it. Perfect.

She removed the long overcoat she’d arrived in.

Loud whistles and clapping broke out. The men in the audience looked her over admiringly—to the annoyance of some of their dates.

She’d dressed carefully for the occasion. A white fur wrap coiled around her shoulders; a strapless red evening gown clung to her body as if painted on. White opera gloves reached nearly to her shoulders, and a fake diamond bracelet encircled her right wrist. Glossy white pumps added several inches to her height; the piled hairdo she wore added a couple more. Her gown’s slit side revealed an expanse of shapely leg in gartered stockings. She’d gone for Glamor with a capital G, and judging from the reaction she was getting, she’d reached her goal.

Wait’ll they see the rest of it, she chuckled to herself.

“Hit it!” Karen shouted, and music boomed forth: “That Old Black Magic,” minus the lyrics. Those, she provided herself.

“That old black magic has me in its spell,” she crooned in a rich contralto voice, “that old black magic that you weave so well. Those icy fingers up and down my spine, the same old witchcraft when your eyes meet mine. . . .” As she finished the first verse, she set the microphone back in its stand and languorously peeled off her right glove, then tossed it away.

“The same old tingle that I feel inside,” she went on. Eyes smoldering, she took the index fingertip of her left glove in her teeth and pulled it, drawing the glove off her arm and dropping it before uttering the next line: “And then that elevator starts its ride.”

Her audience howled.

Karen reached behind her. “And down and down I go; round and round I go, like a leaf that’s caught in the tide. . . .” Wriggling, she zipped down her dress, turning on tiptoe to show off her back before revolving back to face the gaping college crowd. Then she began peeling the tight-fitting garment down over her body.

“I should stay away, but what can I do?” she went on. The dress slithered down, revealing a tiny, tasseled bra and then bikini panties. “I hear your name and I’m aflame. Aflame with such a burning desire,” she stepped out of the dress and kicked it away, “that only your kiss! kiss! kiss! can put out the fire.” With each “kiss,” she pursed her brightly-painted lips and closed her eyes as if lost in the embrace of a lover.

The guys watching her weren’t just applauding now; some were panting, groaning and squealing in pleasure, helplessly ensnared by Professor Tuttle’s steamy performance. Their girlfriends seemed too stunned to do anything about it. None of them had seen the professor’s strip-lecture on Tuesday; they hadn’t bargained on this!

“For you’re the lover I have waited for,” declared Karen, now clad only in bikini, heels, stockings and Abaddon’s necklace, “the mate that Fate had me created for. And every time your lips meet mine, darling, down and down I go; round and round I go,” and she began to sink, her legs spreading wider and wider in a split any cheerleader would have envied.

At last, sitting on the floor, she finished, “In a spin, loving the spin that I’m in, under that old black magic called love.” With that, she kicked off her shoes and began to whirl around, back arched, head tilted back. Bracing herself with one hand as she turned, she used the other to reach up and pull away her bikini top.

The music continued, and as if it were controlling her, so did Professor Karen Tuttle, wriggling and laughing. She writhed out of her bikini briefs, and as the song finally ended, she lay back and closed her eyes.

For a few seconds there was dead silence. Then, as the males present slowly emerged from their sexual fog—many of them would have to change their pants, and quite a few would have some serious explaining to do to their dates—a thunder of applause crashed through the room.

As Karen came back to reality herself, she stood up and bowed deeply, flashing her bountiful bosom again. Then, quite calmly, she collected her clothes and dressed herself. Nobody noticed; the guys were all still recovering from the erotic entertainment she’d provided, and the girls were too busy being angry with their guys.

The party went on after that, but it was pretty much an anticlimax—or post-climax, for a lot of the males who’d watched Karen’s routine. One by one and two by two, the revelers drifted away.

Nick came over. “That was,” he licked his lips, “quite a show you put on there.”

“Why, thank you, kind sir,” Karen cooed, fluttering her eyelashes. Then, in a more normal voice, she said, “I was . . . inspired.”

“I’d say you were pretty inspiring, too, from what I saw.” The blond young man’s voice held amusement and a hint of primal hunger. “Why don’t I take you home?”

“My place or yours?” Karen giggled at the cliché.

“After all that? Mine, I think,” Nick growled mock-ferociously.

Karen giggled again and said, “But I don’t have any pajamas.” She fluttered her eyelashes once more and went on coyly, “Whatever shall I do?”

Nick grinned. “I wouldn’t worry. I don’t think you’ll be needing them.”

Laughing, the couple left the fading party.

Nick turned out to be right. When they reached his apartment, the two of them wasted no time in slipping out of their clothes. They spent the evening writhing and thrusting against each other, exploring each other’s bodies. Nick seemed to know instinctively what to do to turn his partner into a shrieking, thrashing, incoherently babbling mass of flesh. After a while, Karen was so lost in her own private reality of fireworks and ecstasy that even when Nick pulled away from her, her body continued to wriggle and buck amid the tangled bedsheets. Thought was impossible; in her fevered state, she wouldn’t have known what thought was.

At last, exhausted and sated, she dropped into a dreamless sleep. Presently, Nick joined her.