The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Tori snapped her fingers in my face. “Spencer?”

For days, Vickie’s words echoed around my head. By day, the suggestion that something was seriously off about my status quo. Every swishing skirt, every braless boob, every perky “morning Spencer!” was another cause for suspicion. By night, my subconscious improvised a hundred different variations of those things she’d said on my lap. One night, Savannah joined her, the two of them verbally sparring around my cock about whether they were blowing me because, as Savannah argued, girls get horny sometimes, or as Vickie countered, something about me was irresistible to women. The sexier the woman, she said, slobbering up and down my shaft as she fingered her pussy with abandon, the greater the need. Savannah shook her head, hair sweeping every which way, as she insisted she was just a horny, horny girl, and I was a tasty, tasty man.

“Spencer!”

I blinked. “Sorry, Tori. I, um, haven’t been sleeping well.”

“Yeah? Because you zoned out staring at my chest.”

As my mind returned to my present meeting in the Higgins 3 lounge, I almost laughed. Stuffed into that skimpy crimson sheath of our floor shirt, there was visible underboob on display. By then, I’d heard enough complaints from the girls that the shirts had been cheaply made and shrunk in the washer to believe them. Because of course they shrunk. But why, fucking why was someone, or some incredibly juvenile force of nature, introducing all this skin into my life?

“I’m sorry. I didn’t even realize where I was… Sorry. I’m back with you. You were talking about the program.”

Higgins 3’s newly elected governor narrowed her eyes, but decided there was no point lashing out further. “Right. So I took the suggestions you gave me and did some research myself. Lots of good ideas in there. I’ve asked some of our women—trying to focus on the ones I think are most likely to attend—and there’s some with real interest. On the easy side, there’s plenty of excitement for a regular movie night after the success with Mean Girls last week. Only costs us some food and beverages, so I’d say that’s a no-brainer.”

“Sounds good. You want to come up with some titles? Or I can ask around. Don’t want to subject you ladies to my taste in movies. In any event, we can shoot for Thursday nights.”

“I was thinking Thursday, too. And sure, I can come up with the title. I’ll email you once I know and you can do the advertising.”

“Done. Next?”

“Your proposal of a massage night from the election night meeting resonated nicely,” Tori continued. As the mere act of breathing incrementally revealed more and more pillowy brown underboob, I concentrated on maintaining eye contact while we hashed out a plan for that. I knew a woman from the Lakeview Health Clinic who’d helped out with my Rowland guys, a woman from a previous life when encounters with beautiful women were less commonplace. I told Tori I’d get in touch and schedule it.

“Finally, there’s sex,” Tori said weightily.

“Uh, sex?” I sat up straighter.

Tugging her shirt back down into place, Tori’s patience looked strained. I had most definitely not been on point that night. “Your suggestion that we do some programming on sex and sexuality, safety, et cetera? Do you not remember that?”

“Oh! Right. Yes. Sorry. Go on.”

She gave it another tug. Our floor governor could have spared herself a lot of glaring if she’d worn a shirt that fit over her chest. I couldn’t exactly turn off my peripheral vision. “Right. So I think that’s a pretty real need. We have about ninety percent freshmen here. That’s girls who haven’t been taught how to spot and protect themselves from a predator, girls who don’t even know what a roofie is, some girls who never even got sex ed at whatever basic bitch Catholic school they attended.” She shook her head. “You don’t even wanna know how many of our girls have been living it up at house parties, frat parties, taking whatever drink Jaden and Braden and Aiden put in their hands without even thinking twice about it.”

This was starting to sound awfully specific. “Have you heard something? Did something happen?”

“I’m just saying a little education would help,” she said. This time, it was Tori averting her eyes.

“Tori, I’m not asking you to betray any confidences. But did you hear something?”

After a long pause, she said simply, “I’ve heard something.”

“Can you tell me who?”

Tori shook her head.

I softened my voice. We were alone in the lounge, but one never knew who was out in the hallway, about to walk in. “Was it you?”

She shook her head again.

I was glad I wasn’t looking the issue in the face (unless Tori simply didn’t trust me enough to reach out), but still. Fuck. One thing to know all the statistics; another to be told they’re applying themselves to people you know and live with. People I’d come to care about.

I gave myself a moment to process, to wonder in vain, and got on with it. “Fair enough. And let me say: I’m relieved it’s not you. Thanks for bringing it to my attention. You’re right, let’s make this a priority. I have a program in mind. I’ll set it up early next week. We’ll do some promoting at movie night Thursday. Sound good?”

“It’s a plan,” Tori said. Then, eyeing me askance, she added, “Maybe encourage everybody to wear their floor shirts to the movie. Give you a little practice keeping your eyes where they belong, hmm?”

I tried not to watch her swagger on out of the lounge. I really did.

Tori texted me the movie she’d picked a short time later. A League of Their Own. Solid choice, crowd pleaser all the way. I modified a flier I’d drafted for a movie program with my Rowland guys last spring. It felt good changing the artwork for Animal House to a more progressive choice. Take that, patriarchy. Then I headed to the RA supply office (a charitable name for a 3′×4′ closet where they crammed a bunch of art supplies, a first aid kid, and the duty walkie chargers). Six copies on canary yellow to catch the eye, then off to put them up in bathrooms and across from the stairwell doors.

After, I walked the floor. I’d created a very doors wide open kind of community, something I’d never attempted in my previous years. Intentionally, considering the myriad sorts of stank associated with all-male living spaces. On Higgins 3, however, easily half the doors were open most evenings. If they were closed, it usually meant either no one was home, there was work being done, or someone was changing.

So far, at least, they usually changed with the doors closed.

It was a powerful asset for community building. Already, the Higgins Hotties were accustomed to their RA popping in routinely to say hi, check on issues, get to know them. I’d kept mental notes on those who felt a bit too big-brothered by it and employed a lighter touch, but most seemed to feel glad to have big brother watching them so closely.

That night, I followed up with Terri on her TikTok successes. I’d given her a follow, and my lord what the algorithms had taken that to mean. Every other suggested follow was some kind of thirst trap. She invited me to help her record the next one. Her roommate Toni usually did the camera work (i.e. held out her phone, applied every skincare filter known to man, and hit record), but Toni was taking a long time getting back from class, so I would do. For the next fifteen minutes, I watched her repeat a sexy little maneuver while lip synching to one of Beyoncé’s latest tracks. A “viral trend,” she insisted, which I suppose made sense. You couldn’t bounce your tits that hard in a top that low cut, with boobs that big, without generating a few clicks. Thankfully Toni arrived between takes four million and five to relieve me.

Katrina had been nervous about her first college exam. She’d been salutatorian of her graduating class, and I’d tried to reassure her that tests in college were far less challenging than her AP exams had been in high school. I knocked, asked how it went, and she leapt from her chair and bounced across the room like she was a background dancer in Terri’s video. Still, she squealed that I’d been right. She’d nailed it. Scores weren’t out yet, but she’d walked away as confident as she’d ever felt. Once I pried her off of me, we high-fived. Then out of nowhere, she blindsided me by asking when they might move someone in to replace Quinn. I said I didn’t know, and tried not to remember more than that in the presence of the bubbly blonde brainiac.

When I greeted Dana, I didn’t realize that she was in the midst of her daily phone call with her mom. When I went to apologize for the disruption and excuse myself, however, she chased me down and pulled me into her room, closing us in together. Before I knew what was happening, her phone was in my hand against my ear, and I was answering a dozen questions about Dana. Yes, she was behaving herself. Yes, she was going to class. No, she hadn’t gotten any tattoos that I’d noticed. Yes, she was making friends with good kids. No, I hadn’t seen any boys “sniffing around.” Oh god no, I wasn’t interested in sniffing around. Until that last, I’d been either giving the flattering answer or echoing whatever nods and shakes of the head Dana gave me. At that, she snatched her phone back with an aggrieved “Moooom! I told you we can’t date the RA!”

Not wouldn’t. Can’t. Maybe it was the same to her. Maybe. Girls had urges, I’d been told. But this was a bizarre conspiracy, I’d also been told.

Against my better judgment, I popped by 319, Higgins 3’s sole triple occupancy room, taking up a bit of extra space thanks to the configuration of the adjacent floor lounge. I didn’t like to think about that one. The triple room had been unoccupied until after classes started, at which point it was taken over by none other than Allison, Addison and Maddison, a set of identical sophomore triplets. They were the only ones of my residents I’d known of prior to the start of the semester after they made literal headlines during their freshman year, my super senior. All three had rushed the same sorority, but only two had been accepted. The other two walked, but not until after they went through the chapter’s initiation rites. They went to the school paper and outed all the hazing they’d been subjected to. Big scandal. And, incidentally, big publicity for the beautiful blonde trio, whose instagram endorsements were paying for the tuition of all three. Juicy gossip, those three.

Their mere existence was more temptation than man was meant to grapple with. They might not be a point or two below the floor average, but they were triplets. Triplets. Thankfully, they were far less involved in floor goings-on than most of the Hotties. They’d made their own social circle freshman year, and mostly used Higgins 3 to sleep and do homework. That evening, I knocked, asked if everything was going well, they said “yeah” with an implied “what’s it to you,” and I scurried away before my eyes betrayed my honorable intentions.

Sincerely disinterested, or a clandestine agreement not to fight over me? It had to be the former.

Charlie surprised me once again with her ability to transmute my questions about her into questions about me. I started with a simple “how ya doin’” level query, and before I knew it, she’d sat me down in Destiny’s vacant chair and was following up on my sense of guilt over the departures of the Three. I hadn’t even meant to open up to any of them about that, but Charlie and her soft eyes and softer voice got me talking. She insisted again that night it wasn’t my fault. I acted like I agreed. She hugged me like she saw through the act.

I’d already forgotten a lot of my residents of the past few years. I knew Charlie would be one I’d remember.

Speaking of things I couldn’t forget, I touched base with Andi, of course. I learned that the movie selection had been her choice, in fact, after being consulted by Tori. We’d created a new floor government position for her. While Tori and I agreed “secretary” held some negative connotation, when we explained what we were asking of her and described the “floor historian” role, Andi had shrugged and said, “So basically a secretary? I can be secretary.”

Jean was present, so we talked in my room. Andi had made enough noise that there were rumors out there, but sometimes the best way to quell rumors was to tell a way less interesting story. One-on-one meetings in my room might draw eyes, but sending her back out a few minutes later sweatless, undisheveled, breathing evenly would suggest we had nothing to hide.

We did have something to hide of course, and we’d have more if I left it up to her. I didn’t miss the ten different frequencies of come-fuck-me she was broadcasting, but I kept my distance, hands to myself, kept the compliments she fished for as superficial as possible, and tried to set the tone. I was doing well for a while.

Right up until Andi cocked her head to the side and asked, “Do you want to do it again?”

“Uh, do what again?”

“Me.”

Obviously. “Andi, we’ve talked about this…”

“I know. But I like you so much! You’re such a nice guy, and it seemed like you had fun, and I know I had a lot of fun, and I promise I can keep it a secret, nobody would ever know!”

“If anybody’s walking by, they can hear you saying that right now. Plus, there’s the people who already saw, remember? But that’s not even the point. The point is, it could create a lot of problems.”

Andi was all pout. “Like what?”

“Like… OK, so say some weekend, Jean wants to have some friends over, have a little party.”

“Like Kendall and Georgia the other night? I heard some girls talking about that in the bathroom. I didn’t know they were so bad.”

I didn’t dare mention how they’d followed me home and held an accidental sleepover after I’d butted in. “Right, like that. I know you two don’t really hang, but you didn’t have plans, so she figures it’s better to invite you than risk you ratting her out.”

“I would never!”

“Sure, but you and I are friends, right?” She beamed. “So maybe she’d be nervous. Anyway, her friends get noisy, I respond, and there you are in the thick of things. Now, am I supposed to write up my girlfriend?”

“I wouldn’t try to use that to get out of trouble,” she said, though I could see she was beginning to see my larger point. It would cause issues.

Suddenly, she hooked a finger in her neckline and tugged it down to showcase her boobs. A bit heavy-handed. This girl really didn’t have a flirt game to speak of. Only, what she said next was weirdly one of the hottest things I’d ever heard. “But I could make it up to you after…”

I don’t know why it hit me like it did. I’d never liked the disciplinarian part of my job. It created barriers, damaged relationships. The paltry authority at my disposal made me feel like a poser when I wielded it. Still, the idea of this surprisingly sexy, shockingly sheltered girl offering to repay me for forcing me to discipline her… It hit a button.

The improved access to her tits didn’t hurt.

But no. No, no, no. She was hot, but I wouldn’t want to date her even if I could. I sure as hell wasn’t ready to get fired over it, which is what would inevitably happen when we blew our cover even worse than we already had.

“Andi, I—”

“I could give you a, you know, a ‘blowjob,’ if you want. Like before, but I’ll be better this time, not rushed. I’d be happy to. My boyfriend—my ex-boyfriend—always liked when I did that. Except he called it ‘sucking dick,’ which sounds really nasty. I guess ‘blowjob’ does too, but maybe less nasty. But I want to, if you want me to.”

Last winter over in Rowlands, I’d made a bulletin board about the civil rights movement for my January requirement, themed around MLK Day. Not my most inspired work, but they can’t all be Rembrandts. One January night I was on duty, and the fire alarm went off. We ran to the board, then down to where it says the sensor’s tripped. My floor. Turned out some racist fuck on my floor tore down my bulletin board, wadded it up in front of a Muslim student’s door, and lit it on fire. It hadn’t done much damage to the building, but to the community… I went gangbusters finding out who’d done it, room to room with impassioned speeches and livid tirades, a full-on righteous fury until finally someone gave me a name.

In that moment, with Andi threatening to suck my hardening shaft between her sweet, soft, generous lips, I channeled that Spencer. I needed him, before the Spencer who’d let Quinn paint the ceiling pearly white with a finger up his ass took the wheel.

“Andi, I said no.” She stepped back immediately, startled by my tone. “If you make an advance on someone and they say no, it means you stop. Not try harder. Understand?”

“But… please? Just let me… please,” she whimpered. “I’ll be so good, I swear. Just give me a chance to show you how good I can be to it, please!”

Three please’s. Fucking hell. No. No no no think of the fire think of the fire think of the fire hate crime hate crime I have a dream

As she sank to her knees, I stepped away and opened the door. “Out, Andi. Now.”

She stared up at me, dumbfounded. I got the impression that it was less her being shocked that I would refuse her, and more that she was disappointed in herself for the shortcomings of her own salesmanship. Maybe if you’d just taken your shirt off all the way, stupid, it seemed to say.

While she was still processing, a group of girls walked by. Casey, Sammi and Lex, thick as thieves as usual. They’d been a little too close, moving a little too slow, for me to believe they hadn’t been eavesdropping. Lex giggled at Andi’s distraught visage decidedly uncharitably. “Oh my god, she was literally begging to suck his cock!”

Sammi snickered. “And he said no! I’ve, like, never heard of a guy turning down a beej!”

Andi threw herself at the door, ramming right past me. She was intercepted, however, by a surprisingly sturdy Casey. Even as I prepared myself to intervene, or at the very least scold them for bullying, she surprised me by bracing Andi with two hands on her slumped shoulders and regarding her with compassion. Fake? Probably, but I wouldn’t make anything better by presuming.

“Hey, hey, slow your roll, chick,” she said. She didn’t sound sarcastic that I could tell.

“Let me through,” Andi whined. Her back was to me, but her crying was obvious in her voice. The valve on those waterworks was lubed up a little too well.

Casey glanced over her shoulder at me and subtly held up a finger to hold me back. “Hey, don’t be like that. You’re too pretty to be crying over some boy. You’re a Hottie, not some Nottie.”

There was that term again. Hadn’t one of the Three said something about that? I couldn’t remember their names, right then.

Andi didn’t seem much for words. Casey lifted her shirt to dab at the girl’s tears. Good god, no bra. I only caught the underside of those delectable boobs of hers before I averted my eyes, though Sammi and Lex get a good chuckle out of my discomfort.

“There ya go, babe. You can’t let some dumb boy get to you like that—gotta repre-fuckin’—sent!” Casey clapped Andi’s defeated shoulders encouragingly. Then she grinned at me, briefly, over her shoulder. “Can’t fault you for your taste, though. Our boy can get it, huh? Not your fault he’s off the market, though. Forbidden fruit, right? Bet he tastes so sweet.”

“Casey…” I warned in a low voice.

She made a mildly apologetic face. “Come on. Andi, right? Tonight, you’re hanging with us, Andi. We’re gonna get you out of that… frock? I dunno what a frock even is, but I bet it’s gotta be that, right?”

“For sure,” Sammi echoed solemnly.

Andi stiffened. “You want to… take my clothes off…?”

“If you let me finish!” Casey went on with a laugh, “I was gonna say, out of that frock and into something as fine as the rest of you. Come on. I bet I got some stuff that’d do those tits justice. Or we could stuff you into some of Lexi’s shit, stretch it the fudge out, yeah?”

“Hey!” Lexi frowned. At me, for some reason. “Everybody around here’s such a critic of the itty bitty titty committee. You guys suck. I’m so getting them done.”

Oh yeah, the time I called her flat. Apparently Ramona’s talk hadn’t stuck as well as she hoped.

“I was only playing, ho-bag. You know I think you’re hella tasty-looking. Little snack, Little Debbie over there.” Casey playfully nipped the air in Lex’s direction, and like that, the girl was mollified.

Then the three of them were walking away, a protective triangle around Andi. Once they rounded the corner, I heard Sammi ask if she’d managed to get anywhere with me. I was relieved to hear Andi proclaim that of course she hadn’t. Then I was the one eavesdropping, listening to Casey casually compliment Andi’s tits. Before I heard their door seal them away from me, I heard Andi thank her, and insist that Casey’s were “real real big, like almost too big, but in a good way!”

Like that, Andi made some friends.

The next time I saw her was two days later over at the Penderdast food court. I was standing in line at the Taco John’s when I saw them enter. She was dressed in a tank top and booty shorts alongside the other three, her thick braid undone so that her hair could bounce and swish in time with her tits and ass. When she saw me, she waved and blew a kiss, but only after Casey beat her to it. Casey’s gaze lingered, and I gave her an appreciative nod. She winked, and sauntered on her way. She resigned her made-up position as secretary, a title we’d never given her, the next day.

I decided then and there not to thank Casey more directly. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to resist giving her that fucking she’d been chasing since Welcome Week, and Vickie and Savannah’s voices both assured me she’d say yes if I asked.

Movie night was once again a hit. Tori and Andi had been right on. We had the perfect combination of girls who could quote every line and girls who’d never even heard of it who got to experience the magic for the first time. Jacqui proposed getting together Saturday to play softball at the big field by the student union. As a member of the Lakeview volleyball team, she even managed to score us the necessary equipment, even though because of her scholarship, she wasn’t herself allowed to play.

After the argument over who got to have The Boy on their team, I joined her in channeling our inner Stilwell. Deep down, though, I was all Ira Lowenstein. I loved these girls.

The way Angel’s boobs kept popping out of her neckline whenever she swung the bat had nothing to do with it. It was a bonus, though.

Both occasions were fine opportunities to advertise other up-coming programs. The massage night had been scheduled for right before midterms, when stress tended to run higher. I plugged it merely to score some brownie points, but it was too far away as yet to merit our focus. I hadn’t forgotten about what Tori had said. Ramona and I had discussed it over in our weekly one-on-one, and agreed a prompt response was merited.

Luckily for me, I had a connection.

“Spencer! Hang on, let me just… there.” I hung on, waiting in the entryway to her tight but cozy office in the ill-lit basement of this unfamiliar building. She paused the feed playing on her monitor and swiveled her office chair around to look at me, crossing her legs at exactly the right moment. “How you been, man? You look like you’ve lost a little weight.”

Marisa hopped to her feet and, quite uninvited, patted my stomach. It was almost clinical, the way she did it. Oh, who am I kidding, it was clinical. I knew full well what her touch felt like when it wasn’t.

“Yeah, been hitting the gym pretty hard this semester. Seems to be paying off.”

“I’ll say. I can feel your abs through your shirt. Your girl—girls?—have to be loving that. Can I see?”

She didn’t wait for a response. Up went the bottom of my shirt, and I was once more treated to a thorough probing of my not-quite sixpack. I was getting there, though. It was at least a daily occurrence that someone on the floor asked me if I wanted to hit the gym with them, and when there wasn’t, it was hard to be around so many incredible bodies without putting in a little effort just so as not to embarrass yourself. I’d been in good shape before RA training. I was getting close to badass now.

“Marisa…”

She made a face. “All right, all right. Still, nice work. Dang.” She looked one last look, then let go of my shirt.

“Is it my turn now?” I asked dryly.

“Oh, don’t get fussy. You like being looked at. You like being touched. I have wider boundaries. It’s not that we’re subjected to different standards. We simply have different preferences.”

It never took long for me to remember why Marisa and I had broken up. Not that she acknowledged we had. To her, we’d decided to spend time together and have sex with each other for a while, and then we decided to not do those things. To her, it was more like someone who’d decided to stop eating bread for a while. They might want to eat some more later, but for now, nah.

“So, new office, huh? You just sit in here and watch porn all day? Living the dream.”

“Your dream is sharing a ten by ten office that smells like feet with two other grad students? Be better, hon. Plus, I don’t know about you, but in my dreams, I’m the one doing the fucking, not sitting around watching it.”

“Yeah, fair enough.”

“Though now that you said it…” She plopped herself back down in her office chair, gliding back to her desk until bumping up against it. It was implicit that I was to follow, so I did. “So when you saw this, you assumed it was porn?”

She hit the spacebar, and the feed resumed playing. It was some shapely redhead in a sequined bikini doing squats in a shower. That shower had better lighting and more space than any shower I’d ever seen. At the right side of the screen, a chat window displayed lewd comments and plain old simps being simpy. It scrolled by too fast to catch more than the gist.

“Uh… if this isn’t porn, then what is it?”

“That’s what I’m studying,” she said, her eyes riveted to the gyrations of the woman on the screen. “There’s a debate raging about whether the advent of livestreaming is a game changer, or if it’s just old-fashioned voyeurism with a new skin.”

“Oh.” I observed for a moment. I knew Marisa could have—and had—watched porn for hours at a stretch without even touching herself, but I guess I was old-fashioned in feeling a little weird looking at someone dancing in the shower over my ex-girlfriend’s shoulder. “So if this isn’t porn, then… what is it?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe porn, honestly. It could easily fit most definitions, even clinical ones. Soft core, yeah, but still, it’s visual, she’s conventionally sexy, wearing revealing clothing, and while the damned chatbot is censoring anyone who dares to come out and say they’re beating off, no doubt lots of them are.”

“So then why the question, if it’s ‘clinically’ porn…?”

“Well, look at it another way. She’s not naked. Shit, for a shower, she’s overdressed. She’s not doing explicitly sexual things. No fondling, no masturbating. You missed the bathing segment, but she didn’t dwell overlong on her breasts, butt, or genitals. She’s a woman pointing a camera at herself while she cleans herself.”

“She’s wearing a thong bikini and doing squats.”

“Astute. Still, go to the right beach and you might see a woman dressed like this, bending over or what have you. And obviously that’s not porn. Her butt isn’t even pointed directly at the lens,” Marisa countered. “It’s titillating, sure, but is it pornographic? With that body, she could be sitting at a diner sipping coffee in a sweater and jeans and it would turn heads. We’re all of us drawn to people who turn us on.”

It made me think of Terri, raking in clicks with shirts that displayed her nipples prominently and moves that made sure the audience almost got to see them. I didn’t think of what she did as porn. Good thing, because the university would come down like a hammer on it if she got caught doing porn in the residence halls.

Still, Terri wasn’t charging people to see it. She liked the attention and the sense of minor celebrity was all. Fifty bucks had been donated to shower girl since Marisa had made me look at her. “Don’t people have to pay, or subscribe or whatever, to watch this? Paying for it makes it feel, I don’t know, ‘pornier.’”

“Buying a subscription gets rid of the ads, though anyone can watch. Lucky for me, the site has a deal with my big bosses here at the Hancock Institute to get around all that. Anyway, it’s an interesting study. She’s really quite good at whatever it is she’s doing. Banal as hell—and you know me, I’m barely attracted to women to begin with—yet I still find it’s hard to look away. Look, now she’s just… brushing her hair, karaoking Disney songs. Tempting fate if you ask me, but it’s fascinating, right?”

“Yeah, totally.” I mean, it was, but again, not with Marisa here. Man, how long had it been since I’d watched porn? Not since the summer, I was pretty sure. I’d never been a junkie or anything, but especially when I was single, I usually liked a visual aid when I was taking care of things. I guess I hadn’t needed one for a while now.

“Something tells me you didn’t come here to talk to me about the latest break-throughs in smut,” Marisa said, pivoting back to look at me. She propped her feet up on the table behind me, displaying those legs of hers. Those had always been my favorite feature of hers. She was petite—never call her short—and her thighs were no exception. Looking at them always made me wish there was more of them, even if adding to them would revoke the wish. The feel of them in my hands used to drive me wild.

When it came to Marisa, attraction had never been the problem. The opposite, really. Talking about sex 24/7, on the other hand…

So I told her about my unusual placement in Higgins 3, right up to the point of Tori pointing out that we could use some expert insight ASAP. Marisa had been working with the Hancock Institute researching human sexuality for three years now. The programs she’d helped me with had been a huge hit with my guys in Rowland. Like a lot of male floors, you could usually count a program a success if you got four or five dudes to come. Once they saw my hot Latina girlfriend strutting down the hall in her fishnet stockings and halter top, pizza boxes in hand, they’d flooded the lounge and listened with rapt attention.

To her credit, it hadn’t only been because she was a hot girl talking candidly about sex. She was passionate about it. Frank. Nothing was taboo for Marisa, not even actual taboos. I knew firsthand that she had plenty of boundaries, but none when it came to her research and comfort talking about it. Marisa could stand in in the middle of a circle of horny sweaty college boys talking about the risks and rewards of swallowing cum, or choking your partner, the issues and non-issues with incest, all without batting an eyelash.

“So they plunked you down. You. Spencer Lawrence. The same guy who had to ask me what an IUD is. The guy who, when I told him my period was late, said, and I quote, ‘oh, that’s a bummer.’ They made you the custodian of a group of teenage girls.” She shook her head. “Glad to see Lakeview’s Res Life program is running as smoothly as ever.”

“You always said I was too much of a gentleman. They just found me a place where the trait’s useful.”

She grinned. “I did say that, didn’t I. Still, the way you described it…” Her eyes narrowed. “You fuck any of them yet?”

“What? No! Yet? No!”

She laughed. “OK, that was way too defensive for a man who hasn’t nutted to these women at least once. So what did you do?”

“Come on, Marisa. I didn’t come here to get interrogated. And I’m sure the woman who slept with not one, not two, but three of her college professors has no standing to accuse me of anything inappropriate.”

“So you did get your dick wet then, huh.” She laughed. “Man, I always forget Dr. Kerling. What would I do without you to remind me of all my old flames?”

“Get a notebook and track them yourself? Until you run out of space.”

Marisa did love a good-natured attempt at slut-shaming. She quite literally had no shame whatsoever—not one sex act she’d ever performed embarrassed her in the least, and that included her first sexual experience making out with her first cousin when she was in middle school. To her, it had been simple curiosity with no malefactors involved, no embarrassment merited. I met her cousin once at a family gathering, and wondered how he’d feel if he knew how many people had heard the story.

“OK. So your Naughty Hawties need a heads up about sex in the real world, is that it?”

“Basically. I don’t want to get all ‘you could get AIDS or an unwanted pregnancy and every man is out to rape you’ or anything. Most of them already heard all that at orientation and/or in high school. But something to help them take care of themselves and each other would be good, and if we can combine it with something fun and interesting, like you do, that’d be good.”

She nodded. “Makes sense. Gotta keep the troops entertained, right?”

“And it doesn’t have to be you, of course. If you’re busy, you can point me to somebody who—”

“Of course I’m going to do it. You think I’d miss the chance to see my former lover surrounded by his cadre of baby ducklings? No way.”

I gave her a stern look. “Please don’t embarrass me in front of my residents. They still have to respect me after you leave.”

“You sound very confident that they respect you now.”

“Marisa…”

“Oh, cool your sixpack, Tarzan. Can I see it again, by the way? You were always up there in my spank bank, and I am so going to jill off to this when I get home.”

“No!”

“Fine, be that guy. Let’s get you on the calendar.”