The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

John Bishop put down the psychology textbook he’d been reading, lowered his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was getting a headache.

His grades were slipping, so he needed to study extra hard. If he got another poor grade, his GPA would drop below 3.0 and he’d lose his scholarship.

He couldn’t afford that. Without that money he’d have to drop out. My parents will kill me, he thought..

He’d been admitted on early admission based on his high school grades and his college boards, and he’d worked hard at first, especially since he needed the scholarship those same scores had earned. Little by little, though, he’d lost interest, and his grades had suffered. Now he was looking at a C in psych, and poor marks in a couple of other classes too, and he was getting a little panicky.

He had one last chance, something he wouldn’t have dreamed of trying if he hadn’t been desperate. Everything hinged on getting in to see the dean. Ironically, his falling grades had actually given him an excuse to do it. He’d been called in by the dean, and that might—might!—be an opportunity to turn things around.

Dean Carlotta Piedra looked up as the door to her office swung open. Ah, she thought, of course. It’s the Bishop boy. Not, she mused, that he was really a boy anymore; he’d turned nineteen last month and so was technically an adult. Good-looking, too: six feet tall with a runner’s build—he was on the track team, she recalled from his file—under his well-fitting clothes, wavy light-brown hair, blue eyes, regular features. “Please take a seat,” she instructed him.

“Yes, ma’am,” John responded. He lowered himself into the chair facing the dean.

“I’m sure you know what this is about,” Dean Piedra continued. John nodded. After a second, he noticed his eyes had drifted down from the dean’s face to her chest. Flushing slightly, he pulled them back up. The dean had terrific breasts under the mannish blouse she wore, but staring at them was a definite no-no if he didn’t want to sink even deeper into the shit than he already was.

“Yes, ma’am,” John said, hoping the dean hadn’t noticed where he’d been looking. “It’s about my grades, isn’t it.” He looked deeply into the woman’s green eyes. Looking at her was anything but hard; she had a pretty face to go with that great rack. Even the glasses she wore didn’t hurt.

“Yes, John,” Dean Piedra answered. “I’m afraid it is.”

It was now or never, John realized. If he didn’t make his move now, they’d get too deeply into exactly the conversation he was hoping to avoid.

“I’m sorry there’s a problem,” he went on. “I’ve just had trouble focusing on my books.” He kept looking into the dean’s eyes, holding her gaze.

“Why do you think that is, John?” Dean Piedra looked intently across the desk.

“I don’t know, ma’am.” John put a bit of puzzlement into his voice. “I try to focus on what I’m reading, but I can’t seem to do it lately. I can’t focus on the books, I can’t focus on what they say. I used to be able to focus, focus so deeply that I’d shut out everything except what they said so I could concentrate on them. But lately I just haven’t been able to do it. I haven’t been able to focus on the words; when I try, my eyelids start feeling heavy, heavier and heavier, so much heavier and heavier after a while that I find it hard to keep them open. I know I need to keep focusing on the words, concentrating on the words, but I find my mind just wandering and my eyes start to close.”

“Yes,” the dean agreed, nodding but never taking her eyes away from his. “I can understand that.” Her eyelids had started to flutter, just a little, as though her eyes were getting tired.

It was working! Excited, John continued: “Yes. That’s right. My eyelids feel heavier and heavier and everything around me starts to kind of blur. Finally you can’t keep your eyes open. You close your eyes and relax. It’s all right. You can afford to relax for a minute or so. That’s right, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Dean Piedra sighed. Her eyes closed. She settled back into the soft cushions lining the back of her chair. “I can afford to relax. Just for a minute. Or so..”

John smirked. The dean didn’t seem to have noticed that he’d switched from first person to second—from “I” to “you.” If she wasn’t hypnotized, she was either well on her way or putting on a great act. He didn’t think it was an act.

And he had plans for her. Dealing with his low grades was just the start; now that he’d gotten a good close look at her, he had some other ideas too.

Dean Piedra,” John asked, “what’s your first name?” From what he’d read of hypnosis, little things like using the subject’s given name could help deepen the trance state by encouraging him—or in this case her—to trust the hypnotist a little more. The better to screw with you, my dear, he thought, parodying the Big Bad Wolf.

“Carlotta,” the dean answered calmly. “My first name is Carlotta.”

“All right.” John nodded. The name went well with her complexion. “Carlotta.” He paused, “I think I’ll call you Lotta. That’s all right with you, isn’t it.” It was not a question. “In fact, from now on you’ll believe your name is Lotta Fronte; that’s ‘Front’ with a silent ‘e’ at the end.” He grinned. Big boobs weren’t the sort of thing a student was supposed to notice about a teacher, let alone the dean, but her attributes were hard not to notice, even if she did dress so as not to draw attention to them. He wasn’t the first guy to pay attention, either. “You won’t remember that it was ever Carlotta, because it never was. Your name has always been Lotta Fronte. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” came the soft reply. “My name has always been . . . Lotta Fronte.”

“Good, Lotta.” John smiled. “Now I’m going to ask you some questions. You will answer them with the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.” He had a sudden thought. “And whenever you answer me, you will use my first name. You will call me John, and it will seem perfectly natural to do so. Do you understand, Lotta?”

“Yes, John,” Carlotta—Lotta—replied.

“All right, then.” John smirked. Here goes, he thought. “Now listen carefully. Can you access students’ grade records?” He was pretty sure she could, but it couldn’t hurt to ask.

“Yes, John.” Eyes still closed, the dazed dean bobbed her head up and down.

“That’s good, Lotta,” John said. “Can you change those records to give a student a different grade if you want to?” That might not necessarily be true, although it probably was; there was always the possibility that a wrong grade had been entered by accident. Instead of on purpose, he thought, grinning. “If somebody made a mistake and you want to fix it?”

“Yes, John.” Lotta nodded again.

“Good, Lotta,” John said. “Now open your eyes, Lotta. I need you to open your eyes and then bring up the student records menu on your workstation. There’s something you need to do for me, Lotta.”

“Yes, John.” Lotta obediently opened her eyes. She tapped quickly on the keyboard in front of her, pausing a few times to click her mouse.

“Very good, Lotta.” John nodded. “Now what you need to do is pull up my grade record, Lotta, pull up my record now.”

“Yes, John.” Lotta nodded and obeyed, fingers flying over the keyboard. Occasionally she clicked on an icon on the screen. Finally a screen appeared showing John’s name at the top. Numbers appeared below it, mostly in the 60’s and 70’s; a letter grade showed next to each number. C’s and D’s, as he’d expected—mostly D’s. The numbers were broken out by class—English lit (a D; no surprise, he hated that class and had only signed up to fill in an elective), chemistry, math and so on.

“Very good, Lotta. You’re doing just fine.” John nodded. “Now what you need to do is look over those grades and wherever you see a number less than 70, you know it’s wrong, so just add 10 to it.” He repeated: “Add 10 when you see a grade less than 70, because you know any grade less than 70 must be a mistake.” That should do it; he didn’t have any scores so low that adding another ten points would still leave it a D, let alone an F. “Then forget you changed the grade. You must never remember changing my grades, because if you remembered changing my grades you’d have to worry about people finding out, which would get you fired, and you don’t want that.” Computers were great, he gloated. His teachers would have no reason to double-check his grades; he hadn’t instructed Lotta to give him all A’s, after all, or even all A’s and B’s. “Do you understand all this, Lotta, and will you do it for me?”

“Yes, John.” Lotta’s fingers ranged over the keyboard. As each number score changed, the letter next to it did too, automatically adjusting. Finally she was done. She rested her arms on the desk to either side of the laptop, waiting for further instructions.

John provided them. “Very good, Lotta,” he said. “Now this is important. Listen carefully.” He drew a breath. “From now on, you’ll check my grades every day to see if anything new has been added. If there are new test grades, you’ll change them just the way you changed my grades this time, and then, just like this time, you’ll forget they were changed. You’ll forget you even looked at them. Repeat my instructions if you understand them and will follow them without question.”

“Yes, John.” Up and down went Lotta’s head. She repeated John’s suggestions word for word.

John smirked. He could hardly believe it, but Dean Piedra was totally putty in his hands. As for him, he was a lot harder than that in his shorts for Lotta; it was just amazing how great she looked when she was zoned out of her mind. After the success he’d had in getting her to do what he wanted with his grades, it was time to start Phase Two. That promised to be a lot more fun.

He looked at his watch and frowned. He really shouldn’t stay much longer, he decided.. But before he left . . . ! “Lotta,” he said, “it’s getting hot in here. You’d be much more comfortable if you unbuttoned the top couple of buttons on your blouse. Much cooler. You need to unbutton those buttons now, Lotta. Unbutton those buttons now, Lotta.”

“I, I—” the dazed dean struggled. “N-not in front of a, a student.” She was fighting his suggestion, but it was clearly affecting her; sweat glistened on her forehead now as though the room really was too warm.

“Don’t worry about that,” John soothed. “Forget I’m even here. Keep on hearing my voice and doing what it says, but don’t bother yourself about who’s speaking. That doesn’t matter right now. All that counts is that you’re too hot and you need to unbutton those two top buttons.”

“Yes,” Lotta panted. “Too hot.” Her right hand stole to the top button and worked it open, then did the same to the button below it. She stopped, hand still at her chest, as though she couldn’t think what to do next.

She probably can’t, John realized. He grinned. It looks like right now she’s just a flesh-and-blood machine, with me at the controls. A, what’s the word, an automaton, like that Disney figure of Abraham Lincoln or something.

He thought for a moment, weighing his options. What he’d really like to do was have her strip, maybe dance while she took her clothes off. He had his phone with him; that would make a great video! But—he sighed—he didn’t quite dare. She’d probably not obey that kind of suggestion; it’d go too far outside what she’d normally do. It might even snap her out of it, and then he’d really be in hot water! He’d been taking a chance getting her to pop open those buttons.

Of course, he thought, grinning, who’s to say I can’t work her up to it, a little at a time? If I keep hypnotizing her, there’s no telling what I might be able to get her to do if I just keep driving home my, ahem, suggestions and pushing them a little further each time. He licked his lips. I just need to fix it so I get to keep visiting her office.

Well, that was easy enough. “Lotta,” he said, “pretty soon I’m going to say the words ‘Wake up, Carlotta.’ After I say those words, I’ll leave your office, and as soon as I close the door you will be Dean Carlotta Piedra again, just the way you were when I came into the office. You will not remember being Lotta Fronte. You won’t remember I even came into your office. You’ll keep on fixing my grades the way I told you to before, even though you won’t remember I told you to.

“But I’m going to visit you again. You won’t see anything unusual in my coming to visit you. And every time I visit you, I’ll say the words, ‘Wake up, Lotta,’ and when I do, you’ll be Lotta Fronte again and ready for me to tell you what to do. And every time you become Lotta Fronte, you will be more and more willing to do anything I say and believe anything I tell you.

“Do you understand what I’ve said to you, and will you follow my instructions? Say ‘Yes, John’ and nod your head if you understand and will do as I’ve told you to.”

“Yes, John,” Lotta replied, nodding.

“And even if we’re not in the office, if I call you on the phone and say those words, you’ll be Lotta Fronte again and will do as I say and believe what I tell you, because that’s what Lotta does. That’s what Lotta likes to do. Dou you understand, and will you do as I’ve said?”

“Yes, John.” Lotta nodded again.

“Very good, Lotta.” John smiled in triumph. “Now give me your phone number so I can call you. Give me your personal number, Lotta. Write it down and give it to me.”

“Yes, John.” There was a notepad on the dean’s desk; she tore off a sheet, scribbled a phone number on it and handed it to John..

“Perfect,” John said. “Wake up, Carlotta.” He turned, left the dean’s office and shut the door gently behind him.

Carlotta Piedra looked at the digital time display on her computer screen and blinked in sudden surprise. What happened? she asked herself. Did I doze off? How embarrassing. What if someone had come in? But it didn’t feel as though she’d fallen asleep.

She sighed. Well, back to business. There was an admin meeting this afternoon; it would be starting in about twenty minutes. It was sure to be as boring as the day had already been.

One month later:

John grinned. It was time for another visit with “Lotta.” His fifth. Not that she knew that, of course. As far as Dean Piedra remembered, he’d never been in her office.

There was a lot more she didn’t remember, too. Two weeks ago, he’d programmed her to buy a special fantasy costume, stuff he’d found online; he’d printed out the catalog entries and given them to her with instructions to purchase the items and, when she received them, put them away in her office closet and forget about them until he gave her further instructions. It was the perfect outfit for something he had in mind for her. He’d have to work on her a lot more, though, before she’d be ready for what he wanted.

He grinned. He might get a chance to see her in costume before then, though. It couldn’t hurt for her to get in a little practice before the big event. And maybe after a few more sessions she’d be ready to do other things, too. He licked his lips.

Dean Piedra looked up. A tall, good-looking young man, obviously a student, stood in front of her desk. “Yes?” she asked politely. “What can I do for you?” After a moment, she recognized her visitor: John something—Bishop, she remembered, John Bishop.

“It’s time to wake up, Lotta,” came the reply. Suddenly the world shifted. The dean’s eyes widened and went blank. She reached up and patted her shiny black hair, loosening its tight bun a little, while her other hand stole to her blouse, opening it button by button all the way down.

John stared, breathing heavily. God, what a body! He shook his head to clear it. He had something special planned for this visit.

“Lotta,” he asked, “do you have the clothes I wanted you to buy?”

“Yes, John,” Lotta replied.

“Where are they, Lotta?” John knew where he’d told her to put them, but he wanted to hear it from her.

“ In the closet,” Lotta murmured. “Over there.” Lotta waved vaguely to her right, where a pair of sliding panels were set inconspicuously into the wall.

“Good, Lotta.” John smiled encouragingly. “Now what I need you to do is take off what you have on and put those other clothes on.” He paused. “I’ll step out into the hall so you can change. When you’re ready, just open the door and call me in.”

“Yes, John,” Lotta responded. She stood up and glided over toward the closet. John forced himself to step into the hall and close the door.

Ten, perhaps fifteen minutes later, the door opened and Lotta called out, “You can come in now, John honey.”

He did, and stared. The hypnotized Dean Piedra looked even better in the outfit he’d had her buy than she had in the fantasies which had inspired him to get her to buy it. The slinky dress clung almost as if painted on, its sparkly ornamentation adding to its allure, and the stockings were gartered, a detail he hadn’t mentioned but that evidently her own imagination had added in. Long, elegant white opera gloves completed the ensemble.

“You look nice,” John got out, his voice hoarse. She struck a pose, left hand on hip, right raised to tangle in her dark hair. “Very, very nice!” He remembered his phone and took it out, training its camera on Lotta and tapping the VIDEO icon on the screen. “Now turn for me, as though you were a model posing for a magazine. Turn right, yes, that’s it, now left, n-nnggghhh!” He couldn’t help himself; his jaw clenched, his eyes squeezed shut and fireworks went off behind their closed lids as he came explosively in his pants. He just barely managed to keep from dropping the phone.

After a few seconds he came back to reality. Lotta, oblivious to what had just happened, was still posing, turning first right, then left, then right.

Collecting himself, John addressed the steamy spellbound babe known to everyone else only as Dean Piedra. “Lotta,” he said, “in a moment, I’m going to clap my hands. When I do, you will put the clothes you were wearing before back on and put what you’re wearing now back in the closet where you found it. You’ll sit back down at your desk and forget all about those clothes, and if you open the closet again when I’m not here you won’t even notice them. Do you understand, Lotta, and will you obey my instructions?” As though there were any doubt.

“Yes, John.” Lotta nodded. John clapped his hands.

John Bishop stood quietly, looking across the polished surface of Dean Piedra’s desk at the glassy-eyed woman sitting behind it. She was back in her original clothes—which is a shame, he thought, grinning—and the sexy outfit he’d had her try on was back in its hiding place, forgotten again. Everything was on track for the big reveal he had planned, which was coming up in a few more weeks.

Except that now he wanted more. “Lotta” had batted his balls right out of the park just by stripping and posing in sexy clothes. Why shouldn’t he take it further? What was the harm, as long as no one knew?

That was the trick, though. He had to make absolutely sure not to get caught. If anyone found out, he’d be expelled at bullet speed, and that would be just the start of his troubles. The stunt he had planned for her was almost as bad, but he’d figured out how to cover his tracks for that one.

He drew a ragged breath. “Lotta,” he said, “you like me. You like all guys, and you want to dance and strip and tease them, but you especially want me.” He paused, marshaling his thoughts. “You know it’s naughty, because I’m just a college kid, but that’s part of why you’re turned on by me. That’s all true, isn’t it, Lotta.”

The bespelled brunette nodded. Her face flowed into a sexy smirk and her and hands came up to cup her bosom, pushing her breasts up and mashing them together. “Yeah,” she said. “That’s all true, honey.” Her hands roamed, making her breasts jiggle. John stared helplessly for a few moments before managing to collect himself.

“Not now, Lotta,” he croaked. “Relax, put your hands down and relax and let me tell you what to do next.” After a couple of seconds he added, “And remember to call me John now. When you’re not coming on to me the way you were just now, you need to call me by my name and not words like ‘honey’ or ‘sweetie’ or anything like that. No one is supposed to find out that you’re turned on by me. Do you understand, Lotta?”

The bespelled brunette pouted, but her head bobbed up and down. “Yes, John,” she replied.

John struggled to focus. Over the course of their, ahem, relationship, he’d gradually built up an alternate personality for “Lotta,” one more appropriate to the sort of woman who’d strip and model sexy clothes for a guy and come on strong to him than the zoned-out zombie she’d been only moments earlier. It didn’t take much coaxing to bring it out now. It promised to make the show he was setting her up for even better—at least for the guys who’d be watching. Of course, it wouldn’t be good for her job, but that wasn’t his problem.

But now to wrap things up.

“Wake up, Carlotta.” John stood quietly looking into Dean Piedra’s face. The hypnotized woman remained unmoving, eyes glazed and mouth slightly open. Now that he’d spoken her wake-up trigger, she’d come out of trance as soon as he left her office and shut the door behind him, but as he’d confirmed on an earlier visit he could wait as long as he wanted—on that occasion, he’d waited fifteen minutes—and she’d stay just like this, totally out of it, until he left. Well, he didn’t need to screw around like that today. It was just handy to know he could. He turned away, opened the office door and stepped through, then shut the door behind him.

He frowned. It was just as well he’d timed the visit for the end of the school day.. Going back to class with a clearly visible damp spot at his crotch would have been embarrassing. He hadn’t expected to be so overwhelmed by “Lotta’s”—ahem—performance. I’ll have to be more careful next time, he told himself.

But he wasn’t. Instead, at their next meeting John took his . . . relationship . . . with “Lotta” to the next level. As the hypnotized Dean Piedra finished putting on her glamorous costume, he issued new suggestions.

“Lotta,” he said, “you’re really turned on by stripping for me, aren’t you? You like stripping and dressing up for me, and you like it that I get turned on watching you do it. that’s true, isn’t it, Lotta?”

“Yes, John honey,” Lotta cooed. “I like it.” She batted her eyes and added, “I like it a lot!”

“You want to have sex with me,” the youthful hypnotist continued. “You want to fuck me brainless, fuck me until I can’t remember how to count, and you know I want it too. Nothing else matters.”

“That’s right, John baby,” the bedazzled brunette purred. “I wanna fuck you till you don’t remember what’s two plus two!”

“Then let’s do it,” John suggested. His pulse pounded in his ears as he spoke, and he could feel a massive erection straining in his pants. “Strip back out of those clothes, Lotta, and let’s do it!”

Lotta obeyed.

Her strip was every bit as sexy this time as it had been before—more, if anything.. John stared as she peeled off her gloves and undulated out of the sparkling gown that seemed almost shrink-wrapped over her lush curves.

Lotta noticed. “What’s the matter, baby?” she teased. “Lost in the view? Here, let me help you.” Nimble fingers unbuttoned John’s shirt; knowing hands helped him out of it, then stole to his belt.

Dizzy with lust, John braced himself on the desk and kicked off his shoes. Lotta’s hands went to his belt, unbuckling it; he took it from there, sliding his pants down and kicking them off his ankles.

Smirking, Lotta finished her own strip, stepping out of her shoes, unlacing her corset and oozing out of it before undoing her garter and bending to slide her stockings down. John pulled down his briefs. Lotta drew him to her, one hand snaked around to push against his back, the other pushing his head to hers. Their lips met. They sank to the floor, grinding together as they went. The world faded away around them.

Lotta, driven by John’s suggestions, seemed tireless, writhing on and on, driving John to come, then come again, and again, and . . . ! He forgot everything. Lotta was as good as her word: if anyone had asked him just then, he really couldn’t have remembered what two plus two added up to. Not that it mattered. There was only flesh.

Eventually—John couldn’t have told whether minutes or hours had passed—the spellbound succubus stopped. Even driven by John’s suggestions, she had exhausted herself. She collapsed onto John and the two of them lay drifting for some timeless interval.

At last John stirred as reality returned for him. He eased himself out from under the drowsing dean and managed to get his clothes back on. He crouched over Lotta—no, he reminded himself, Dean Piedra—and gently shook her shoulder. “Lotta,” he addressed her, “can you hear me? Open your eyes and look at me if you can hear me.”

“Yes, John,” Lotta answered sleepily. She opened glazed eyes and looked up at him. “I can hear you.” Obedient to his earlier suggestion, she no longer attached an endearment; she wasn’t coming on to him now, just doing as he told her to do.

“That’s good,” John said. “That’s very good, Lotta.” He took a breath. “Now I need you to get up, Lotta. Get up and put on the clothes you were wearing when I came into the office.”

“Yes, John.” Lotta did as instructed.

“Very good, Lotta.” John smiled. “Now just like you always do, put your other clothes away and forget all about them, then come and sit at your desk.” Moving like the mindless machine she was, Lotta obeyed.

“Now in a few moments,” John said, “just like I always do, I’m going to say the magic words that will turn you back into Dean Carlotta Piedra, and just like always, once I say the words you will wait for me to leave the office and then, when I leave the office, you’ll wake up and forget all about what happened here, forget I was even here.”

He collected himself. It was time to give her the instructions he had worked out for the performance he had planned. After what she’d done today, he was clearly ready to do just about anything he suggested. “But before I say the words, Lotta, there’s something I need you to do.”

He paused. “You like showing yourself off, don’t you, Lotta?” he asked, sure of the answer.

“Yes, John,” Lotta answered.

“You like showing yourself off to me, and you’d like to show off for other guys too. You want to dance and strip for me and for other guys, and when you’re Lotta, the way you are right now, you don’t care where you are when you strip as long as there’re guys there to watch. When you hear striptease music, you strip and dance until the music stops, and the more you strip and the more you dance the more turned on you get.”

“Yes, John,” Lotta agreed.

John thought a moment, assembling his words. “Lotta, listen carefully,” he said at last. “In a moment, I’m going to snap my fingers.” He smirked at the cliché. “When I do, you will be Carlotta Piedra again, but you’ll remain relaxed and completely open to everything I say, just the way you are now.” For what he had planned next, he needed her as Dean Piedra. He snapped his fingers.

The bespelled brunette blinked. Her face shifted subtly as a different personality occupied it. Watching, John nodded.

“Dean Piedra, can you hear me?” he asked. “Nod your head if you can hear me.” Dean Piedra nodded.

“That’s good.” John nodded. “Do you know about the fundraiser the college is holding for the football team?” That was a sore point with a lot of the guys; the football team always seemed to be pampered, given the best of everything no matter what it cost. Sure, the team brought in money from the alumni, but it still didn’t seem fair the way the administration bent over backward to keep the jocks happy.

“Yes, John.” The dean nodded.

“Good.” John smiled. “Tell me about it, Dean. Tell me all about the fundraiser.”

And the befuddled brunette did. It was supposed to be held at a local social club, the Palermo. Dean Piedra was to give a little introductory speech, after which a couple of the alumni would come to the microphone; then a band would play, there’d be drinks and finally dinner before the evening wrapped up with the actual collection of the money. John grinned, suspecting that the administration was hoping that the food and especially the drinks would put everyone in a good mood to write big checks. Students would be allowed to attend, but would be expected to remain politely quiet.

John nodded. He’d known most of this already in a general way, but it was nice to have confirmation. And it was very important to know the festivities were to be held at the Palermo Club; he’d heard several other possible locations mentioned, and naturally his plan wouldn’t come off if he didn’t know where to go to kick it off.

He grinned. Dean Piedra was going to give her audience a lot more than a speech.

There were more people in the audience than the fundraiser’s organizers had anticipated. The faculty were there, of course, and most of the administration, and naturally a contingent of alumni and other regular donors, but a surprising number of students had shown up as well. Almost all of them were male.

Hiram Caldwell rubbed his chin thoughtfully, wondering what the attraction was. He wished he could have skipped the fundraiser himself, but like the faculty and administrators he’d been expected to show up; what would people think, after all, if the university’s president had stayed away?

Anyway, he told himself, it was all for a good cause. He could stand a few hours of insincere socializing if it meant the university got some extra money for its sports program. He settled back in his seat, noting with irritation that Dean Piedra was late. She’s always on time, he noted, chafing. Why did she have to pick tonight not to be?

As though on cue, the dean stepped out from behind the curtains to the to the right of the small stage in front where bands usually played. A lectern had been set up center stage, complete with a microphone. Dean Piedra stepped in front of it. Watching from one of the round-topped tables closest to the stage, John Bishop smirked.

Joshua Weatherby stared. Chairman of the college’s board of trustees, he’d expected Dean Piedra to arrive professionally dressed, in one of the slightly mannish outfits she usually favored. Instead she was dressed as though she were going to an elegant ball, in long white gloves, a tight-fitting sequined gown and white high heels. Only her hair was the same as usual, bound up in a tight bun. And she seemed perfectly fine with it, almost as though she didn’t even notice anything out of the ordinary. She had what looked like a set of notes in one hand; she set them down carefully on the lectern. She glanced down at them for a moment, then looked out at the audience and began, “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to—”

Suddenly loud, brassy music more appropriate to a quite different sort of club than the Palermo erupted from somewhere up front, interrupting the dean’s speech. And as it did, she suddenly looked confused. But only for a moment.

Her face shifted into a teasing expression. Then, laughing, she pushed her notes off to flutter to the floor. “Never mind that boring speech,” she said dismissively. “Let’s have some fun instead!”

And with that, she began to strip, moving to the music and peeling off first one glove and then the other and tossing each one away before sliding the glittering gown down her torso and then over her hips to slip down her legs and pool at her feet.

Chairman Weatherby stared. He knew he should stop this, right now, but somehow he couldn’t summon the words to demand that the disrobing dean pull herself together and put her clothes back on. Just a minute longer, he promised himself.. God, just a minute longer and I’ll stop this! But Dean Piedra—Lotta Fronte now, though no one in the audience except for John Bishop knew anything about that—stepped out of her gown then, and Weatherby forgot about everything else. My God, he thought.

Lotta Fronte stepped out of the crumpled mass of fabric massed around her feet. Smirking seductively at her stunned audience, she bent down, picked it up and tossed it aside. Standing upright again, she posed for then, turning first left, then right, with her hands on her hips. Clad now only in lace-up black bodies, panties, sheer stockings and sky-high heels, she was a wet dream come to life.

Weatherby couldn’t take his eyes off the vision in front of him. She needed only a whip and spike-heeled riding boots in place of her shoes to match his most feverish fantasy, one he’d never dared tell anyone about. The world around him faded away. All he knew was that he’d do anything for this incredible creature, anything at all. His body bucked and he came explosively.

But Lotta wasn’t done. Still leering at the stunned men and shocked women watching her, she reached for the laces holding her bodice together and undid them slowly, teasingly, until the garment was fully unbound, then shrugged out of it and tossed it away, still moving to the music. She posed again, swaying back and forth rhythmically; the men in the audience followed the motion helplessly with their eyes. More than one of them visibly convulsed in his seat, relaxing with a dazed, happy look on his face.

Looking around, John noticed that several women had their phones out and were speaking into them urgently. He could guess who they were calling. Time to wrap this up, he thought. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small remote and tapped the STOP button. All at once, the music stopped.

So did the woman on the stage. Suddenly she looked horrified and dashed off stage right, leaving her discarded clothes behind.

John smirked. Everything had worked perfectly. Sitting in the front row with the gain turned up to maximum on the small audio player he’d hidden beforehand in the shelf under the lectern’s slanted top, all he’d had to do was press the button and the same sexy music he’d played in the dean’s office erupted, amplified by the microphone just as her voice had been. Of course, he’d had to bribe one of the security guys to let him in and a stagehand to let him go up on the stage and plant the player, but it had been worth every penny of the two hundred bucks. Just the expression on Dean Piedra’s face when she woke up on stage and realized what she’d been doing had made his day. All of a sudden she’d have remembered sneaking in her sex-bomb outfit, slipping into it, coming out on stage and then going into her strip when the music started. Naturally, she recalled nothing of why she’d done it, any more than he’d ever allowed her to remember their encounters in her office. He pictured her racing backstage to the room where she’d changed her clothes and grinned; he’d been tempted to fix it so she wouldn’t remember where it was. But this was better. As far as anyone knew—anyone but John and her, anyway—she’d done it all of her own free will, and of course no one would believe her if she said otherwise.

He sighed. It was a pity he couldn’t have more fun with her, but if she wasn’t fired after this they’d probably put her on “indefinite leave,” maybe make her see a shrink as a condition of not kicking her out. He frowned briefly at the thought that a psychiatrist might try hypnosis to get at the root of her “problem” and unlock all her memories. Well, he thought, I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it, if it ever does.

EPILOGUE:

John Bishop managed to graduate from college, having managed to maintain a B+ average with the unwitting help of Dean Carlotta Piedra. His grades were good enough to enable him to get a job at an advertising agency, where he struck up a relationship with a dark-complexioned beauty who bore a striking resemblance to Dean Piedra. They were married a year later. His wife is utterly devoted to him and trusts him absolutely. She will do anything he says and believe anything he tells her.

Carlotta Piedra was quietly eased out of her job. However, she landed on her feet, writing several well-selling steamy romance novels under a pen name. One of the novels features a female college dean seduced by a student via hypnosis. When asked by a reporter for a tabloid newspaper whether any of her books are based on anything in real life, she laughed and called his suggestion ridiculous.

Unknown to her readers and to the media, at least so far, is that she moonlights as a stripper, using the stage name Lotta Fronte. The name just seemed to come to her out of nowhere. She enjoys the work so much that she is increasingly tempted to abandon her writing and take up stripping full-time.

Joshua Weatherby joined with the rest of the college’s trustees in a conspiracy of silence about the former dean’s striptease in order to keep the embarrassing incident out of the newspapers. However, he still occasionally has fantasies about her.

Every once in a while, John visits Carlotta at home. Recognizing him as one of the students from the college where she used to work, she always lets him in. She never remembers those visits afterward.