The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Sorry,” Richie Unger said. “I’m just not interested.” There was a touch of irritation in his voice. His friend Bill DeWitt had been after him on this subject for weeks now.

“Aw, come on,” Bill wheedled. “You could at least come once, just to look things over. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to come back.”

Richie sighed. His pal was a muscular young man with thick wavy brown hair, a starter on the varsity football team at Penner University, where they were both juniors. He himself, on the other hand, was more of a bookworm type, tall, skinny, with pale blond hair that stuck out in all directions as if he’d been electrocuted and blue eyes magnified by the round glasses he wore. Lately Bill had been pushing him to join his gym. Richie found that about as appealing as castor oil, and for about the same reason: as far as he was concerned, too much of a “take your medicine” air hung about exercise classes. The only working out Richie really enjoyed was walking; when the weather was nice, he might walk a couple of miles, back and forth through the tree-lined avenues which crisscrossed the university campus.

Still . . .

The blond youth sighed again. What harm could it do? If he went once, maybe Bill would quit bugging him about it. “All right,” he said. “I’ll go.” He held up a cautioning finger: “Just this once.”

“Fine.” Bill nodded. “Just give it a chance, that’s all.” He ran a hand through his hair and said, “I’m scheduled for tomorrow at five. How about then?”

“Okay,” Richie assented. “Tomorrow.”

“Great! I’ll swing by before I go over, and pick you up. Say about half past four.”

Richie jumped a little when he heard the knock at his dorm room door. “Four-thirty already?” he asked himself. His eyes strayed to his watch: sure enough, it was. He’d been so engrossed in studying that he’d lost track of time.

He stood up and stretched, hearing a couple of pops as joints cracked. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to get out for a bit, he thought. He could get supper later.

“All set?” Bill asked as the door opened.

Richie nodded. “I guess so. I don’t really have any exercise clothes, though. Will these do?” Before settling down with his books, he’d changed from his usual stacks, dress shirt and polished wingtips into shorts, a T-shirt and sneakers.

“Sure,” came the answer. “No problem.” Bill snorted. “Nobody really needs all that fancy, expensive sportswear anyway—certainly not for plain workouts.”

The two friends left the dormitory together. The afternoon sun shone down with Indian-summer warmth as they strolled over to the campus parking lot where Bill’s car sat.

Bill DeWitt owned an expensive late-model SUV his rich and indulgent father had bought him for his eighteenth birthday. As the two youths climbed into it, Richie Unger suppressed a flash of envy. His dad hadn’t bought him a car at all; the second-hand Ford sedan he’d finally managed to purchase last year was merely utilitarian transportation.

The McKenney Gymnasium was a former YMCA bought out in the 1990s by real-estate tycoon Charles McKenney, a physical-fitness zealot. McKenney had dropped dead of a stroke in 2001, but a provision of his will had established an operating fund for the gym.

The place’s exterior was less than appealing, suggesting (depending on one’s mood) a factory or a prison. Inside, however, it had been nicely set up for all sorts of exercise activities. A glossy chart on one wall in the lobby revealed it boasted a swimming pool, a Jacuzzi room, a weight room, a steam bath and several massage rooms, among other things.

“Bill DeWitt,” Bill announced to the bored-looking woman at the reception desk. “My friend and I are here for Ms. Barron’s exercise class.” He flashed a small laminated card with his picture on it.

“Have your friend sign the guest book and then go on up,” the woman said. “You’ve got a few minutes before the class starts.”

Richie signed in. Bill led him to the elevator bank and took him up to the building’s third floor.

The room in which the exercise session was to be held had a number of mats strewn along three of its walls. A clear area. When Richie and Bill arrived, they found a number of other people in various forms of workout gear already present. Looking at them, Richie felt self-conscious: all of them were clearly in better shape than he was.

“Maybe this was a bad idea,” he muttered. He turned as if to leave.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” Bill grabbed him by the arm. “You promised, buddy, remember?”

Richie gave in. He had promised, he reminded himself. Still uncomfortable, he allowed Bill to introduce him. “This is my friend Richie Unger. We’re classmates at Penner.” The others crowded around. After a few moments, Richie relaxed a bit. They seemed friendly enough.

A few minutes of getting-acquainted conversation followed. Then, all at once, someone called out, “She’s here!” At that, the knot of humanity which had formed around Richie and Bill dissolved.

“Welcome, class,” a rich contralto voice called out from the front of the room. Instinctively, Richie turned to face it.

He gasped. There in front of him was a strikingly beautiful woman. Five feet eleven, with dark red hair tied in a knot, she had a model-perfect face. When she removed her overcoat after carefully placing her oversized handbag on the floor, he saw that her figure was terrific, too, curved in all the right places. The smoothly muscular look of the arms and legs left exposed by the spandex exercise outfit she had on accentuated rather than detracted from her feminine appeal.

“I see we’ve a new student,” the redhead observed. “Let me introduce myself, then. I’m Katrina Barron, your instructor.” Looking directly into Richie’s eyes, she asked: “And you are . . . ?”

Richie stammered out his name. He found it hard to concentrate on anything but the cool green eyes gazing into his own.

“Well, Richie,” Ms. Barron said, “we’ll try not to push you too hard your first time. It is your first time, isn’t that right?” Her expression hinted at a double meaning that made Richie blush.

“All right, then.” The trainer addressed the class at large. “We’ll start with the usual warm-up, and once I see how Richie does, we’ll see where we go from there.” Her smile was blinding.

Ms. Barron knelt down and fished a CD player out of her bag. She evidently had a disc already installed, for after only one quick press of a button, music emerged, some tune with a steady beat. Straightening, she called out, “All right, everyone: follow me!”

She went into a series of bends, side to side, then up and down. The up-and-down bends extended into toe-touching. Richie was too stiff-backed to actually reach his toes, but he did his best to follow along. By the time the instructor finished, though, he was red-faced and wheezing.

The next round of exercise was jumping jacks. Richie had always hated those in phys ed when he was a kid, and he didn’t enjoy them any more now. Halfway through, he had to stop. He stood panting as the others continued.

The trainer noticed. After she called a halt to the jumping, she came over to him. “What’s the matter, honey?”

“I can’t,” he gasped out. “I’m sorry. Maybe this was a bad idea.”

“Don’t feel bad—Richie, isn’t it?” Ms. Barron smiled at him. “Just rest a little while, and if you feel like joining in after that, just go ahead.”

“All right,” the young man wheezed. He sat down with his back to the wall, facing so that he could watch Ms. Barron take the class through their paces. If nothing else, it was entertaining to watch her.

Eventually the class was over. Richie had made a half-hearted effort to rejoin the workout, but he hadn’t really been able to keep up. Discouraged, he headed over toward Bill. His friend had meant well, but this wasn’t an experience he wanted to repeat.

Ms. Barron intercepted him. “May I speak with you for a few minutes?” Seeing his eyes flick toward Bill, she said, “Don’t worry. This won’t take long.” After a pause, she added, “If you like, I’ll have a word with your friend, tell him to wait for you.”

“Okay,” Richie heard himself say. Nodding, the exercise instructor went over to Bill and addressed him quietly. Richie couldn’t hear what she was saying, but presently she came back and assured him Bill would wait.

“Come with me,” Ms. Barron directed. She led Richie out of the exercise hall and into a smaller room containing a low, wide couch and a glass-topped coffee table flanked by a couple of well-upholstered chairs.

“Please, sit,” the trainer urged, waving at the chairs. Richie selected one of them and sat.

There was a coffeepot on the table. It sat on a small warmer, and steam wafted from its spout. “Let me get us some coffee,” Katrina Barron said. “You do drink coffee, don’t you?”

“Uh—sure,” Richie said. “Milk, two sugars?”

“Fine,” the redhead responded. “I take it black myself.”

There was a dark-finished wooden cabinet resting against one wall. Ms. Barron opened it, revealing that it contained silverware, coffee cups and napkins. “I don’t have any milk, I’m afraid,” she announced. “Will powdered creamer do?”

“That’ll be fine,” the college student answered. He felt off-balance. This hadn’t been what he’d expected. He tried not to stare; the trainer was still dressed in her revealing workout suit.

Ms. Barron brought the cups over and handed one to him. She had put the cream and sugar in it already, and once he’d taken it, she carefully poured in coffee, filling the cup. The hot drink warmed the cup in Richie’s hands as the white powder disappeared beneath a dark tide. He took the stirrer she also offered and swirled it in the coffee, watching as the liquid turned from black to a medium tan in color in a whirlpool pattern which caught the eye. He drank it down in a quick gulp.

“More?” Ms. Barron asked, watching him over the rim of her own cup.

“No, thank you,” responded Richie. He felt very comfortable now. He sank into the cushions of his seat. His empty cup dangled loosely in his hand. “I’m fine.” The cup tilted more; if it had still had coffee in it, the drink would have spilled. “Just . . . fine.” He sighed, and his eyes closed.

Katrina Barron leaned over and took the dangling porcelain cup, setting it carefully on the tabletop. The drug she’d mixed in with the sugar and creamer had worked perfectly, just as it always did. Young Richie Unger wasn’t asleep, but he was now in a state of total relaxation, completely open to her.

She studied him with a critical eye. He was cute, in a nerdy sort of way, but very obviously had never exercised regularly in his life. She had her work cut out for her if she were going to bring him up to snuff.

The exercise instructor laughed softly. She enjoyed a challenge.

“Richie, can you hear me?” Katrina’s voice was low and even. Soothing.

“Yes, Ms. Barron,” Richie Unger mumbled. “Hear you.”

“That’s good, Richie,” Katrina told him. “You’re so relaxed now, Richie, aren’t you? So relaxed, it’s almost as if you’re falling asleep, drifting off to sleep right there in your comfortable chair as you listen to my voice, isn’t that right, Richie?”

“Yes, Ms. Barron,” emerged from Richie. His head sagged onto his chest.

“Drifting—but you mustn’t go to sleep just yet, Richie.” Katrina reached over and tipped Richie’s chin up with the fingers of one hand until he was facing her. “Open your eyes and listen to me, Richie, open your eyes and listen to my voice, it’s important that you open your eyes and listen to my words.”

Richie’s eyes opened and an attentive expression settled over his features. “Yes, Ms. Barron,” he whispered.

“Call me Katrina,” purred the woman in front of him. “When we’re alone together, call me Katrina. After all, we’re going to be good friends.”

“Yes, Katrina.” Richie blinked once, very slowly. “Good friends.”

“Yes, just like that.” The trainer ruffled Richie’s hair gently. “But only when we’re alone, or if I tell you it’s okay, Richie. Otherwise, you should go on calling me Ms. Barron. We wouldn’t want people to get the wrong idea, now would we?” Or worse, the right one, she chuckled to herself.

“No, Ms. Barron.” After a moment: “No, Katrina.”

“That’s right, Richie.” Katrina reached up to fluff her own hair. “Now listen carefully.” She paused to organize her thoughts. “In a little bit, I’m going to wake you up. When I do, you’ll remember only that we had a nice chat and some tea, and that I offered to give you special attention, special help, if you were willing to come back for more sessions.”

“Yes, Katrina.” Richie Unger’s voice was very soft. “You’ll give me . . . special help . . . if I come back.”

“And you want to come back, Richie.” Katrina brushed her fingers lightly over the young man’s face. “When I wake you up, you’ll remember our nice little chat, and you’ll want to come back for more exercise. You’ll want to come back.”

“Want to . . . come back.” Richie nodded, his chin bouncing lightly on Ms. Barron’s supporting hand.

“That’s right, Richie.” Katrina had brought her bag in with her. Reaching into it, she pulled forth a small yellow pad and a pencil. She scribbled on the top sheet, tore it off and stuffed it into Richie Unger’s shirt pocket. “Call that number tomorrow, Richie. There will be instructions for you. When you hear my voice giving you those instructions, you will return to this wonderful relaxed state and accept those instructions. When you’ve heard them all, you will awaken again, with no memory of making the call.”

Richie fumbled vaguely at his pocket with one hand. “Call tomorrow . . . for instructions. Yes, Katrina.”

“Very good, Richie.” Katrina went into the awakening script she’d developed for these occasions. “Now Richie, I’m going to count backwards from three to zero, and as I do, you’re going to return to your natural state from the wonderful relaxed condition you’re in right now. When you do, you won’t remember me giving you suggestions; you’ll remember only what I’ve told you to remember.”

“Yes, Katrina.”

“Three.” Richie blinked.

“Two. You’re feeling more alert.” Richie’s eyes focused; his chin lifted. Katrina withdrew the hand which had been holding it up.

“One. Your muscles are no longer limp. You’re still relaxed, but you’re able to sit up straight now.” Richie sat up straight.

“Zero. You are now fully awake and alert, as if nothing had happened.”

Richie stretched and yawned. “Wow,” he exclaimed, “this is a comfortable chair. My muscles were all sore before, but I feel a lot better.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” returned Ms. Barron. “Now, I believe your friend—Bill, isn’t it? I believe your friend Bill is waiting for you.”

By reflex, Richie glanced at his watch. “Holy—! Where did the time go?” He stood up hurriedly. “I’ve really got to go!” Without another word, he left the room.

Katrina Barron sat quietly, gazing toward the door, smiling. Richie Unger promised to be an interesting case. He was unlikely ever to be another Schwarzenegger, but there was a solid bone structure within him which suggested he had definite possibilities.

The drug would help, of course.

It was amazing what was available these days. Everyone focused on nasty substances like cocaine and heroin, or nuisances like marijuana—but there were far more insidious psychoactives out there. The white powder she’d dropped into Richie’s drink along with the creamer and sugar had a long chemical name she couldn’t remember offhand, but its street name of Yes described it perfectly. It made anyone dosed with it totally relaxed and obedient, almost as if hypnotized. Under its influence, Richie could be given suggestions to keep him working hard at building himself up. And she had ways of rewarding him for continued obedience that would further strengthen her hold on him. Katrina smirked.

Usually, the effects of a dose of Yes lasted an hour or two. She hadn’t had that kind of time to play with Richie tonight, not with his friend waiting for him, so she’d simply suggested he wake up. With the drug still in his bloodstream, his wakefulness wasn’t quite the real thing—Richie might seem a little disoriented to anyone who knew him—but it would pass.

Whistling softly, Katrina Barron washed the coffee cups and pot and put everything neatly away. Then, done for the night, she left.

“You sure you’re all right?” Bill DeWitt sounded worried. Richie seemed kind of out of it. He’d had a rough time with the exercise, worse than Bill had expected. “You’re not gonna, like, pass out or throw up or anything.”

“No—no, I’m fine.” The words, delivered in a slightly vague voice, were less reassuring than they might have been.

“I guess you won’t want to come back, huh?” Bill was contrite. “I’m sorry I pushed you into coming along.”

“No, it’s all right,” his friend responded, sounding stronger now. “Don’t apologize. I want to try again. I didn’t realize I was that out of shape! It’s time I did something about it.”

“Well, if you’re sure . . . !”

“Yes, I’m sure,” insisted Richie. “I just need to get some rest.”

Nodding, Bill turned his attention back to driving. He drove back to the Penner campus, parked, and walked back to Richie’s dorm with him.

Richie still felt a little strange, almost as if he were moving in a dream. He didn’t feel like going to the quad cafeteria, so he raided the mini-fridge in his room for sandwich fixings and a soda before settling down in front of the TV. He dozed off about nine; when he woke again, just before eleven, he turned off the tube and went to bed. He was asleep again almost before his head hit the pillow, and didn’t wake up until seven the next morning.

He had classes from nine to two that day. After the last one, he grabbed pizza at the Student Union before heading back to his room to study. After an hour or so, though, he started to feel a strange itch in his memory, one of those “I was supposed to do something, but what the hell was it?” sensations. It kept getting stronger, interfering with his concentration. Finally he remembered.

“Of course!” Richie reached for the phone. How could he have forgotten?

He fumbled briefly in his pocket. Yes, the piece of paper was still there. He pulled it out, scanned the telephone number written on it, and dialed. The phone rang.

“Hello,” Ms. Barron’s recorded voice greeted him. “This is Katrina Barron. You have reached my special instructional number. The following message is for Richie Unger. If you are Richie Unger, say ‘Yes, Ms. Barron’ at the sound of the beep.”

The phone beeped.

“Yes, Ms. Barron.” The words emerged automatically. All at once Richie felt wonderfully relaxed.

“Thank you, Richie.” The machine at the other end, naturally, had no way of telling who was on the line, or what that person had said, but Katrina Barron gave this particular number only to one person at a time, and she’d been confident that Richie would respond as required. “Now listen very carefully.

“Tomorrow evening I have a six o’clock class for beginners. You will come to that class. You know now that you need more exercise, that you need to come to my classes, so you will attend that class until I’m satisfied you’re ready for the regular exercise sessions. Do you understand, Richie? Answer at the beep.”

Beep. “Yes, Ms. Barron. I understand.” Richie smiled. It seemed perfectly natural to be holding a conversation with a recording.

“Thank you, Richie.” Katrina’s voice continued following the script she’d prepared, again taking Richie’s answer for granted. “Now I want you to hang up the phone, Richie, hang up and wake up, remembering only that I’ve invited you to a beginners’ class. When you hear the beep, Richie, hang up and wake up.”

Beep.

Richie hung up the phone. He went to his desk and scribbled on a Post-It, BEGINNERS EXERCISE, TOM. 6 PM. He tore off the little yellow sheet and stuck it firmly to his door, right at eye level.

Ms. Barron’s beginners’ class was less intimidating than the one to which Bill had taken Richie. For one thing, the half-dozen other students turned out to be more or less in Richie’s league physically, either skinny nerdoids like him or overweight. For another, the pace was a lot less demanding. Richie found that he could actually keep up. When the session ended, he was sweaty and out of breath, but not totally wiped out. He began to feel that he could actually get to enjoy it.

Richie was preparing to leave when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Startled, he looked around.

“Don’t go just yet,” Katrina implored. “Come on back with me and we’ll talk awhile.” The hand on his shoulder began exerting a gentle pull, drawing him along.

“Do you do this with all your students?” Richie asked. Despite his question, he allowed the exercise trainer to guide him toward the door to the little room he remembered from the previous evening.

Katrina Barron gave a throaty chuckle. “No,” she answered, “just my special favorites.”

Richie blushed crimson and looked around to see if anyone else had heard that. Apparently not. Several of the others were gone already, and the rest were concentrating on getting ready to leave.

He felt flustered. Like any other young guy, he’d had his fantasies, but he’d never really expected a great-looking older woman to take an interest in him. But that was what seemed to be happening.

Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Rich, an inner voice counseled him. Go for it! What could it hurt?

Richie wasn’t really sure what to expect when Ms. Barron ushered him into the little room he remembered from the previous evening. As soon as she closed the door behind her, though, she waved him to a seat and, just as she’d done last time, asked him if he wanted a cup of coffee.

“Yes, Katrina,” he answered. Startled at the way the instructor’s first name had popped out of his mouth, he stammered, “Er, I mean—!” Somehow, he couldn’t make himself call her “Ms. Barron.” Flustered, he fell silent.

Katrina chuckled. “Don’t be upset, Richie. I’m not offended. After all, we’re going to be very good friends.” Turning away from him, the gorgeous exercise trainer busied herself preparing the coffee. “Light, with sugar, right?”

Richie made a vague sound of agreement, and shortly, Katrina handed him a steaming cup and watched, eyes bright, as he drank the hot beverage. As he finished it, she asked, “How was it?”

“’S fine,” Richie slurred, letting the empty cup dangle. “Fine.” His eyes lost focus and their lids descended, not quite closing.

Katrina retrieved the cup and set it down safely. Richie was obviously under. Now it was time for the next step in his conditioning.

“Richie,” she commanded, “look at me. Open your eyes and look at me.”

Richie obeyed.

“Now, Richie,” the trainer went on, “you’re very relaxed, aren’t you? You feel completely relaxed and safe. You’re completely relaxed and safe, and you know you can trust me completely, don’t you, Richie, because we’re very good friends.”

Nodding clumsily, Richie mumbled, “Relaxed. Safe. Trust you . . . completely. Very good . . . friends.”

Katrina was wearing a tight-fitting outfit of shorts and halter-top this evening. Smiling, she cupped her breasts with her hands, pushing up the soft flesh barely hidden beneath her top. “You find me attractive, don’t you, Richie?” she asked in a coaxing voice. “You can tell me, because we’re such good friends.”

In his right mind, Richie Unger would have been speechless with embarrassment. Now, however, he answered helplessly, “Attractive. God, yes.” His eyes widened and locked onto the exercise instructor’s ample bosom.

“You like these, don’t you, sweetie?” With both hands, Katrina reached under the bottom of her halter and began massaging her boobs. Richie gave a low moan.

“Yes, that’s what I like to hear,” the trainer said. She left her own seat and came over to Richie, bending low over her drugged plaything. “You want to touch them, don’t you? Go ahead, Richie, touch them.”

Richie’s hands came up. His fingers made contact with Katrina’s fabric-covered chest. His hands slid over her curves. His breathing grew faster. So did Katrina’s.

“Ooo, that’s right,” the redhead moaned. “Yes, just right.” One hand emerged from under her halter-top and strayed to Richie’s groin. He was already erect, but at her touch he gasped and his member grew even more engorged. ”Just right. . . .”

Katrina withdrew her wandering hand and used both to peel off her top. Richie’s jaw dropped open and he stared. Even without the drug, those gorgeous globes would have been irresistible to him. Unbidden, his hands came up and enfolded her exposed flesh. His eyes widened even further.

“Richie,” breathed Katrina, “have you ever had sex before?”

Normally he would have avoided answering such a question from a member of the opposite sex. He’d have been too embarrassed. Now, though, he answered: “No. Never.” It was all right, something soothed him. It was Katrina who was asking. He was safe with her. He trusted her completely.

“Well, we’ll just have to do something about that, won’t we, sweetie?” Skillful feminine hands came up, unbuttoning Richie’s shirt. Without being asked, Richie let go of Katrina’s bosom to allow her to slip the garment off of him. “Now you, Richie honey. My pants. Take them off.”

Richie leaned over and did as he’d been instructed, unfastening Katrina’s shorts and easing them over her hips and down her legs. Finally she stepped out of them.

They stripped each other, one item of clothing at a time, until they were both nude. Then Katrina led the unresisting Richie Unger to the couch against the wall and eased him down onto it.

“Don’t worry, Richie honey,” she said as she straddled him. “I’ll help you, just as I promised to help you, remember? I’ll show you everything you need to do.”

She was as good as her word, lowering herself onto him and writhing against him, whispering instructions for him to obey. Her thick red hair came loose as they heaved and thrust together; it cascaded down her back nearly to her waist. Their bodies kept moving together, Katrina using her hips and skillful caresses to control the pace, until at last both of them shuddered and cried out simultaneously.

After a minute or two of simply basking in the afterglow, Katrina dismounted. Richie remained on the couch, a dreamy smile on his face.

The trainer glanced at her watch, the only thing she’d had on she hadn’t had her stupefied young stallion remove during their mutual strip. She sighed: there was no more time for fun and games, unless she wanted to give Richie another hit of Yes. Reluctantly, she decided against it. No sense overdoing things. There would be time enough in future visits—and there would definitely be future visits.

She smiled broadly, eyes half-lidded. Young Richie had been very enjoyable indeed. What he had lacked in experience he had certainly made up for in vigor. If their lovemaking had had any drawback, it was simply that he lacked the muscular build she liked—and after all, that was what the physical side of his training was for. It was simply a matter of patience.

But now . . .

Still nude, Katrina went to Richie, bent over and gently brushed his face. “Richie, honey,” she told him, “sit up, please. Sit up, open your eyes and listen to Katrina.”

Richie obeyed her instructions as given, sitting up, then opening his eyes and focusing on the beautiful naked woman standing over him. “Yes, Katrina.”

“Now, Richie,” the trainer said carefully, “it’s time to go home. In a moment, we’ll both get dressed and go home. But before we do, I need to ask you to do something for me. Will you do something for me, Richie?”

“Yes, Katrina,” Richie answered.

“That’s a good boy, Richie,” Katrina said. “When you leave here, I want you to go right home. Did you drive here?”

“No, Katrina,” Richie answered. “I took . . . a bus.”

The exercise instructor nodded approval. That was better. Richie would be coming out of the Yes soon, but even so, he wouldn’t be in the best shape to drive—and she didn’t want him having an accident. He might get hurt—and if he were, a doctor’s exam might turn up evidence of his drugging.

“I want you to take the bus home, then, Richie. And when you get home, you’ll remember what we did here tonight as just a sexy daydream. You’ll remember having coffee with me, and remember that you had a very sexy daydream about the two of us.”

Richie nodded. “Remember what we did . . . only as a sexy daydream. We really . . . only had coffee.”

“From now on, Richie,” Katrina continued, “you’ll come to every one of these exercise sessions. I have them every Tuesday and Thursday at six. You’ll come to every session—by bus, Richie”—might as well settle that issue once and for all, she thought—“and each time, after class, you and I will come back here for coffee.” The redhead laughed. “And if you’re a good boy, Richie, you may get to have more daydreams about the two of us.” That was definitely the plan, anyway, she thought, laughing again.

“Yes, Katrina.”

The trainer got Richie and herself dressed. When they were both fully clothed, she inspected the youth carefully. Yes, everything was as it should be; there were no telltale signs that more had happened to him than he would recall. Smiling with satisfaction, she took him by the arm and guided him out the door. She followed him until he got onto the elevator and watched until the indicator above the door showed it had stopped on the first floor. Then, assured her toy was properly on his way home, she cleaned up the room they’d been using and left the gym, pausing only long enough for a visit to the ladies’ room.

Richie Unger arrived back at his dorm room a bit after nine o’clock. He’d felt a little foggy as he left the McKenney Gym, but his head had cleared on the bus ride home.

Thinking of the gym reminded him of Ms. Barron. He blushed. He’d had a hot fantasy about the two of them while they’d been talking and drinking coffee after class. He hoped it hadn’t shown; she was being so nice to him, he wouldn’t want to upset her. If she knew what he’d been daydreaming, she probably wouldn’t let him come back, and he really wanted to. He planned on attending every session from now on.