The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Wes arranged for me to meet the team’s coach after their morning practice. As I walked through the large corridors of cold concrete leading to the coach’s office, I felt as if I was entering a forbidden land with only the dilator and the tenderizer flasks, one in each pocket, to conquer it with. I readied one of these weapons: I took a sip of dilator. I was early by about ten minutes, so after locating room 371, I walked further down the corridor at a slower pace, rehearsing mentally what I’d say to the coach. Ahead, I heard a shower running; soon, voices entered my mind. « ...has a point soap in my eyes but we’re not making progress doesn’t seem to bloody care the legs now... » in Wes’ mental voice and « ...so stupid who does this dwarf think he is can’t believe Wes tried to convince the coach he’s just starting to listen to me should make him miss the game... » in Casper’s. I was standing just next to the locker room’s open doors, out of view; I could hear but not see.

“Wes, you’ve not thought this through,” said Casper. “The coach was already angry with you for missing so many practices. Now that you’ve stood up to him, you can be sure he’ll take you out of the game.”

“I know I’ve taken a big risk. But you should have seen Dave and Mike play! It bloody works.”

So Wes had stood up for me. I was fucking impressed! It wasn’t because of the drugs: it was his own choice. Sure, the drugs had helped to create the ‘miracles’ that made him believe in me, but his own mind was clean.

“I’m sure it works,” « ...no way... » “but we were about to make it on our own,” « ...the coach was starting to listen to me... » “and it’s just... well... a weird solution.” « ...inner soccer ball? stripping to feel free?... »

“Bloody hell! We were NOT making it on our own.” « ...no improvements crushed us... » “And even if the solution’s a wee bit weird,” « ...absobloodylutely weird... » “it works.” « ...clean enough now... »

The shower stopped running. The thought of Wes standing naked just a few feet away was driving me nuts. I would have loved to get in and check him out, but I’d heard other voices in there, guys I wouldn’t be able to control because they hadn’t drunk any beer. So I went to the coach’s door and knocked. I was expecting an overweight man in his forties with flaccid skin where muscles used to be, so I was fucking surprised when a tall dark Italian stallion in his late twenties opened the door. He wore blue, white-striped, Adidas sweatpants and a white tank top, which exposed his chiseled arms and the tattoo on his left shoulder.

“You must be Mr. Flannigan,” he said in a low and mellow voice. “I’m Anthony Sabban, Wes’ coach.”

We shook hands; for a moment, I thought mine was melting in his. His office had barely room for a desk and two chairs, one behind, one in front. We sat, and I focused on his steaming coffee cup.

“Wes tells me you’ve improved some of my players’ performance with special techniques. Tell me more.”

“It’s just simple meditation techniques to make them relax and focus on the game. Nothing mysterious.”

“I see.” He extended his legs over his desk and took a sip of his coffee. “Now, Casper told me things he heard from Dave and Mike. Apparently, to prove that your techniques work, you’ve used them to... hmm... stimulate Dave and Mike sexually. Then you’ve improved their play, but you’ve somehow caused them to remove their clothes and practice in only their jockstraps. Is this really what happened, Mr. Flannigan?”

I wasn’t expecting this. Fuck! I’d been an idiot to let the students remember the exact events. To the outside eye they looked suspicious. Someone knocked on his door, a short woman named Tina, and he excused himself to talk to her outside his office. I took out the tenderizer flask and added a few drops to his coffee.

“Sorry about that. Where were we? Yes. It’s simple, as you said: keep away from my players. I have to make sure this team wins tomorrow, and I certainly won’t achieve that by having them practice in the nude.”

I stood up, dumbfounded. As I walked out, he told someone on the phone: “Remove Wes Collins from the players’ list for tomorrow, he’s not ready. And bring me another coffee, this one tastes awful.”

I was fucking pissed, especially at Casper. I stormed inside the locker room without thinking. There he was, wearing only a towel around his waist, about to dress. He had his back to me; there was no one else around.

« From now on, you’ll think you are alone in the locker room. You won’t see or hear anyone else. »

Once I’d sent the bubbled thought, I checked if it was working: I walked up in front of him and shouted: “Hi, friendly ghost. What a surprise to see each other here!” He did not even blink: he was oblivious to me. Good, now I wanted a show. I knew he wasn’t tenderized enough to give it to me if he thought I was there, but this way, he wouldn’t know he had an audience. “Now, the ghost will show his ass to the dwarf.”

« Take another shower, alone. During it, you’ll think about your best fantasy and it will arouse you. »

The bubbled thought popped into his mind. He turned away from me and headed for the showers. The towel dropped behind him, and my wish came true. He had a fantastic backside: smooth, with wide shoulders and a compact bubble ass. “This ass is gonna be mine soon, so you better take good care of it.”

He started his shower, keeping his back to me. He soaped himself all over; I stared when he spread his cheeks open. « ...roxanna... » he thought, « ...you’re looking at me with your judging eyes how can you judge me you dirty bitch you want me more than I want you and I tear your top off and it makes a noise... »

He turned around, and there he was, in full frontal nudity, the soft firm chest, the trimmed golden pubic hair, the soft seven-inch uncut cock, the tight pouch of balls. « ...and I see your bra and your bouncing breasts and you scream and I tear the skirt and you’re wearing red panties because you’re a dirty slut and you scream you don’t want me to force you to act like your true feelings but now you can’t resist... »

He was spending more time washing himself in the pubic area now. His cock was half-hard, pointing straight at me as if it was the only part of his body detecting my presence. « ...I’m alone the others went for lunch but be careful... » He grabbed his dick and started to slowly stroke it. « ...hmm that’s good now back to you bitch yeah you’re the one who tears off her bra now and you show me your big breasts and you tell me don’t force me to do this and you come close to me and you rip all my clothes off like an animal.. »

He had a full hard-on now, which he was jerking off wildly. His face was red. « ...you grab my dick and you suck it like a vacuum cleaner and it feels good so good and you suck hard and I’m gonna cum and... »

Jets of thick white cum squirted out of his cock and onto the shower’s floor; he stiffened a deep moan. I sent him a quick bubbled thought: « The coach and the entire team are in the locker room. They’ve seen what you’ve done. You still do not see anyone else. » He opened his eyes. He stared to a point a few feet to my left, seeing ghosts. He instantly blanched and started shaking. He walked towards his towel, slipped on his cum, and stumbled to the floor. He extended his arm, grabbed his towel, stood back on his feet, crudely dried himself and headed towards his locker. He was so fucking embarrassed, I almost felt sorry for him. I left the locker room. A few minutes later, he passed me in the corridor, clumsily dressed, sobbing like a kid.

I was calm now. I paced the corridor, thinking about what Wes did, what the coach said, what I’d just done. Wes’ support had touched me, especially since it had cost him his place in the game. He had made a quick decision based on his gut feelings, and did not go back on it. It’d be fantastic if decisions were always this easy to make. I noticed a poster for a fencing competition, and it made me think of Brad Lowitt, my high school gym teacher. I had such a fucking crush on him. He was only 24 when I started high school, but he managed to earn the students’ respect by showing off his skills as a pro fencer. I started fencing because of him, and it was probably the only sport I ever enjoyed. I was so much into it—and so much into him—that I became the top fencer within the year. Brad and I became close, and he gave me private lessons. I couldn’t get bored looking at his apple-green eyes, his short chestnut hair, and his svelte athletic body in his molding uniform. He invited me to his place a few times: his parents owned a huge mansion with a tennis court and two pools, one indoor and one outdoors. He was a god to me, and for a long time, he was proud of me too.

An unfamiliar inner voice suddenly broke my train of thought: « ...teachers order us around like servants must talk to jenny about that now the coffee wasn’t awful was just cold needed microwave why do I have to do the waterboy soccer practice today these water bottles are heavy... » It was a female voice. Tina! She must have drunk the coach’s coffee. I turned around and saw her haul a large water bottle out of a room.

About two hours later, I was sitting on the benches of the soccer field, watching the least thirsty player in the team finally drink a foam-cupful of tenderizer water. By my calculations, assuming that the 15 gallons of the half-keg of beer we’d found contained three quarters of the tenderizer, the flask still contained enough drug for 5 gallons, or 80 cups. I had convinced Tina to empty two fifths of the flask in the 2-gallon yellow plastic bottle; the players had by now each drunk one or two cups of water from that bottle which Tina had placed on a wobbly folding table next to the field. Wes wasn’t at the afternoon practice: crushed to learn he wasn’t in the game tomorrow, he was considering dropping the team. This shook me a bit, but for now I wanted to settle the score with the coach. Speaking of him, he was running up and down the field, involved with what his players were doing, and had not sipped a drop of drugged water, preferring to drink from his own green Gatorade bottle. The practice was not going well. He kept shouting at the players: “Get into it!", “Focus!", “Don’t forget the strategy!", “Think about your moves!". I took a sip of dilator, my second today, and my mind gradually filled with the noise of the players’ thoughts, a chaotic mess except for some coherent words that sometimes popped in. At first, the voices dizzied me—it was like listening to a dozen radio stations all at once. Three stations stood out: Casper, Mike and Dave’s thoughts came to me louder and clearer because the beer from yesterday and the water from today had combined their effects. I used them to practice focusing on a single mind and blurring the others. Then, I set my little plan in motion...

“OK guys,” said the coach, “some ball stealing from behind for the next fifteen. Berg, Rogers, Matadan, Perkins, Evers, and Hume: line up with a ball. The rest behind them by twenty feet...” He stopped; no one was moving. “Come on, guys, we don’t have all day.” No one moved. “What is it, guys? This better be good.”

“We’re not sure this is the best way to win the game tomorrow,” said Dave. The others whispered: “Yeah...”

“I don’t care what you think, I’m your coach, and it’s gonna be my way or no way.”

“There is no ‘your way’’,” said Casper. “You keep changing ‘your way’ after each game. What’s the matter? Do you know what you’re doing? You’re new this year, and we keep losing.” The others said: " Yeah.”

“And you’re the leaders of this little mutiny, Casper? Dave? It can be ended fast if you’re out of the game.”

“If they’re out, we’re all out,” said Mike. The others shouted: “Yeah!”

Such a massive rejection took the coach by surprise. He stood there thinking, speechless. Finally, he sneered: “What is it that you propose, exactly? Do you have some surefire way of winning tomorrow?”

“The Flannigan Method,” said Casper, simply. “The one we told you about this morning.”

“The Flannigan Method? The one with inner soccer balls and practicing in your jocks? Please...”

The entire team started shouting: “Flan-ni-gan. Flan-ni-gan.” How similar this scene was to the Ghost Story Incident! Casper in the lead, others shouting my name... Except that this time, I was the god. I walked to the field as the team cheered my arrival. “The giant who’ll awake our giant within!” shouted Evers, a thin red head. “You!” the coach screamed with a hateful face. “I told you to stay away from my players. Get out!”

“I will get out if, after a little demonstration, even one of your players want me to leave. Dave, Mike, Casper, come here before me.” They were the only ones drugged enough to do what I wanted them to do; they obeyed eagerly. “Are you ready to go to extremes that will show your coach and your team how badly you want me to guide you?” “Yeah!” “First, show them how vulnerable you’re willing to get by taking off your clothes.” Beaming with excitement, the three boys hurried to peel off their shirts, kick off their shoes, remove their socks, slide down their shorts, and strip from their jocks. I could not believe it! They were standing proudly naked before me, to the unbelieving glare of the coach and the admiring stare of their peers.

“Second, let your dicks become as hard as you want to win tomorrow, without touching them.” Within the next minute, we all watched as Dave’s thin nine-inch dick, Mike’s thick cut monster and Casper’s uncut purple shaft grew hard as rock without any stimulation. “Now, is there any player here who doubts my skills and wants me to leave?” There was a complete silence. The coach was too stunned to say anything.

“Then let the training begin...”