The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

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1. Little Miss Magic

Kira’s heart is pounding and every muscle is stretched to its limit as she lifts her right leg behind her and arches her back to get into the needle scale position. The balance beam is vibrating distractingly beneath her left foot, picking up and amplifying the trembling in the muscles of her thigh. Determined to execute the routine, she snaps her head back (damn, she thinks, minus a tenth), reaches behind her, and grips her right ankle, pulling herself into an upright position, balanced on her left leg, the right leg vertical in an almost-perfect line of toned limbs.

The position is excruciating, and Kira grimaces in pain, quickly converting the reflex into the rictus grin of a professional gymnast. The rest of the squad looks on dispassionately. One or two of the other girls are frowning slightly, probably picking holes in her ever-so-slightly imperfect lines. Kira knows every day is a new competition; she is struggling here, and sweat beads on her forehead, from effort and anxiety. She thinks: who am I fooling?

There must be a way to improve.

Kira knows she is good, but maybe good is just not good enough any longer. There are girls here at the University who have the flexibility and moves she can only dream of. They have scholarships and rich parents and other backing. They have talent, she thinks, and then immediately unthinks it. Not going there. Definitely not going there, she thinks, and closes down that avenue of reflection for something more positive.

Of course she has talent. There must be a way to improve, thinks Kira, trembling on the beam.

“Okay Kira,” says Coach Jeffries. “Dismount.” With some relief, Kira unfolds her aching limbs and drops to the floor, conscious that even the easy dismount isn’t quite perfect.

“Not bad, Kira. Not great, but not bad. Lots more work to be done though.” Kira is flushed and sweating, and flushes deeper at the coach’s words, knowing them to be true. “Mel, show us how it’s done, please.”

With a quick sympathetic glance at Kira, Mel leaps onto the beam, landing perfectly with both feet together. She chances a grin at Kira, who can’t help pursing her lips, much as she doesn’t want to show weakness. Not in front of the other girls, and especially not in front of Mel.

Mel is attractive for sure, thinks Kira, on all the usual scales women use to measure themselves against other women—but that isn’t the point. The point is that she’s a drop dead brilliant gymnast—a natural, really—and Kira knows with some trepidation that she has a long way to go to catch up. Indeed, she thinks sometimes, at the end of the day after a bad session in the gym, she has a long way to go even to make the varsity team.

She comforts herself in the knowledge that she, Kira, is definitely more intelligent than most of the other girls, and—yes—more attractive too. Her class grades are good, better than most (except Mel). She knows her sunny disposition is sunnier than the others’ (except Mel’s). Sure, all the girls are lithe and toned and athletic, because that’s the nature of the discipline—but Kira believes her pretty heart-shaped face is that little bit more pretty and heart-shaped than theirs, and sets her apart by that all-important micro-quantum of allure; and indeed, Jack has told her so. Kira knows (because Jack has told her this too) that she is just that little bit sexier and more ‘natural’. That word again, but she clutches at it in this other context.

When she thinks of Jack, there is a tiny ache in her chest, and she cherishes it now.

She knows that her blonde hair is more striking (especially in her new undercut bob, which adds edge to a classic style) and she knows her small breasts are pert and attention-grabbing. And it’s no surprise that she gets hit on just that little bit more than the other girls, even, she thinks, although she is not completely sure, Mel.

Still, these small victories are incinerated by the sight of Mel executing an absolutely flawless repeat of the needle scale move she had shuddered through. Effortlessly done, in fact, thinks Kira, and that is the real problem. Everything is so much effort at this new level of competition.

At high school Kira had found it easy to shine—academically and athletically—and now she clings to her former status like a comfort blanket. Little Miss Magic, they’d used to call her. A big fish in a small pond, ultimately. It had been a shock to come here, to UM, and find not only was the pond that order of magnitude larger, but that the fish were that much bigger and more ferocious. They had dented her confidence again and again, and Kira knows that confidence and self-belief are fragile and necessary things, prerequisites to optimal performance.

Consider: her precious home town is, she now realizes, not a haven for prodigious talent, but just a tiny speck of mediocrity in the anonymity of the Midwest. The local paper had sung her praises in the county and state junior competitions; they had even featured her on their blog, a recent innovation to the local community which had much of the town chattering along the lines of ‘it’ll never catch on’; they had added her name to the sign by the main road, which reads: Chapston Ridge—Pop. 12,752

She believes they still count her as a resident, even now, making the actual population 12,751 because she is absolutely determined never to go back there. Come to think of it, since her parents had decamped to Florida in an unseemly haste once she’d got herself into college, make that population 12,749 (and falling).

And below, in red type on yellow: Home of the Wisconsin State Girls’ U18 Gymnastics Champion 2014.

Some bright spark, probably from high school—and she thinks she might even have an idea who was responsible—had one night kindly spray painted over ‘Gymnastics’ with the word ‘Cocksucking’. The county had replaced the sign the very next day. The replacement sign would leave off her name, the sheriff had explained apologetically, for the avoidance of further temptation.

Sort-of famous for fifteen minutes, then, Kira thinks. A fleeting kind of recognition. But in this new stage of her life, the paltry achievements make her cringe. Her cheeks burn to think of how naively proud she had been.

Moreover, Mel is now twisting on the beam as if she’s made of rubber, smiling and obviously relaxed; showing off, really. Some of the shapes she’s throwing are inaccessible even to Kira’s trained eye. It seems outlandish, yet so easy for her. How does she even do—that, whatever that is? How did she learn it? Did she even learn it, thinks Kira, or can Mel just do it, naturally, innately?

Kira sighs. She knows all too well she has a long way to go. But she is young and determined, and there is Midwestern steel beneath her velvety skin.

Break it down, she thinks; every journey begins with a single step.

There is always a way to improve.