The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

CHAPTER 4

She’s Got Game

It was 2:00 on a Sunday afternoon—the crowd, about 500 boys and maybe 20-25 girls, was already in the stands. Some of my confederates had created a paper wheel with the phrase “Throbbing To Win” on it—as the girls exited the locker room into the gym, music would strike up, the crowd would cheer and they would break thru the paper to find themselves naked in the gym in front of the boys.

In the locker room, I sat in the darkened coaches office as the girls showed up. When the last one arrived, Nikki brought out the sneakers, and told them to get their clothes off and put away. The first jolts came as they began to undress—a warm feeling of easiness and satisfaction. I noticed some faint smiles and mildly glassy eyes as this went on. As one girl after another stripped nude, Nikki would give her the appropriate sneakers and tell them to put them on—each order followed by more “pleasure” response, with yet another “pleasure” jolt as they finished putting on the sneakers. The only real resistance came from Susan, the prudish preppy, who turned to Nikki and asked where her uniform was.

Nikki:

“Get your clothes off”.

Susan:

“But where’s my uniform?” (With that, I hit the “electro-shock” button. Susan’s jaw went slack, her eyes glassy).

Nikki:

“Get your clothes off, put on the sneakers”. And she did.

When they were all naked, and wearing the appropriate sneakers, Nikki give them a pep talk. It was a rousing speech, something Vince Lombardi would have been proud of, with “pleasure” jolts from me at the high points. At the end of it, I had her say “We’ve all agreed to this, lets give them a show!”, followed by a mass handshake with appropriate cheers. That was my cue to leave the coaches office and go to the booth. Biff was right on cue, commanding over the PA “Ladies, take your court!” as rah-rah music came on and the crowd cheered. And so eleven naked, unwilling girls and one semi-willing one broke through the paper wheel and entered the gym.

There was a brief pause as the boys took in the trembling female flesh so invitingly exposed before them—then an enormous yell of satisfaction filled the gym! Such girls as were in the crowd were mainly in shock, but I noticed a few giggling at the display. The teams themselves burst through the paper and ran into the gym, where for the most part, they grabbed balls and began warming up. For the most part. Debbie, ever shy, blushed from head to foot (the crowd loved it!) and froze in place. Tiny little Ellen also stopped, obviously scared, and just didn’t move. Jodi Babler, the arrogant bitch, had somehow broken conditioning and dropped down into a squat, wrapping herself in her arms to hide her breasts and genitals from the cheering crowd of males, a look of horror on her face. Cathi blushed, giggled, placed her hands over her genitals and kind of shuffled along.

I was ready for this. As each girl panicked, the transceivers in their earrings broadcast their brainwaves to the computer in the booth. When the pattern indicating panic appeared, the signal went out to the earrings to generate the “electro-shock” response. All four girls went slack-jawed and glassy eyed. Up in the booth, Biff put a spotlight on them, and using a commanding voice on the PA, said “Ladies, hit that floor and warm up”. In their passive condition, they obeyed.

And so it began. The warm-ups went on for about five minutes, the girls shooting hoops, practicing their passing and so on, their bodies beginning to glisten under a thin film of sweat. With a honk from the scoreboard, the referees got the teams lined up in front of the crowd. I checked—the computer/transceiver was working perfectly.

With an enthusiasm that was not feigned, Biff introduced the girls one by one, announcing the positions that they would be playing (the first they had heard of it—important for them to know their positions). The introductions included the full names, ages, year in school and major of each girl, destroying any possibility of anonymity, and guaranteeing the success of the longitudinal part of my experiment. It also included a passing mention to the charitable nature of the admission, and a firm reminder that the girls had willingly agreed to participate. They hadn’t, but between the conditioning and the powerful and authoritative voice of the PA, the doubt was firmly planted in their subconscious.

The first ten girls took the court, Susan Delaney on the bench for the Red Sneakers, Cynthia Houtz (the least athletic of the girls) for the Blue. I allowed them to wear a wrap while on the bench, in order not to distract the crowd. The teams took positions, the referee launched the first tip-off. Long, tall Cynthia Andrews easily knocked to ball to her teammate Ellen Arndorfer, and the game was underway.

The first quarter was a little awkward—only three of the girls were regular basketball players—so there was a lot of traveling calls, and at first, the shooting was quite inaccurate. What really got the game started was the first foul. Nikki Zoerb, at center court, was dribbling at a slow jog, when she tripped over Erika Coons’s foot, almost but not quite falling. As the referee blew his whistle, Nikki swore at Erika, who in a surprising display of aggression, swore back at her. Jodi Babler, always argumentative (and as far as she was concerned, right) came to the defense of her teammate Ellen, and the other members of the teams got involved in the argument, which didn’t really quite become a brawl—but taking advantage of the situation, I manipulated the “pain” response so that no small amount of hostility began between the two teams. As they lined up for the foul shot, the words continued as Nikki scored on both shots, and after that, the game became real.

So much so, that the second quarter became really interesting, with both teams charging hard. As the girls became used to each other, the teamwork became closer, forming a bond between the girls on their respective teams. I smiled; this would be a powerful motivating force. Memorable moments included little Ellen and her spectacular jump shots, her tiny little body looking like an fairy in flight; long tall Cynthia during her tip-ups, and Cathi Metzger’s long brown hair (her barrette fell off and was lost) fanning out over her cute ass and playing hide-and-seek with it. So far, a great show.

I kept halftime short—with the break in the action, the opportunity to break conditioning would present itself, and I kept all the girls within arms reach of each other and their coach. It was during halftime that the consequences of the game were announced. On both ends of the courts, two tables were laid out—on them were the sex toys I had chosen for the grand finale. As the tables were assembled, the girls were lined up for the halftime announcement— Biff first announcing the score; then praising the girls for their efforts; then announcing how much had been raised for charity (cheers from the crowd); then announcing what would happen to the losers.

“The losing team gets tied up folks—and then, for your pleasure and edification—the winning team gets to have their way with them—IF you know what I mean!” The crowd of boys did, and began making some very lewd noises. “Ladies”, Biff continued, “Take a close look at your counterpart on the other team—are you going to be spanking her, or is SHE going to be spanking you?” Here I hit the “electroshock” button—the girls immediately became both compliant and suggestible. “Ladies—you DON’T want to lose this game, do you?”

Cued by Nikki, the girls all shouted “no”. Some of them also began taunting the opposing members—Judi Metzger to Kim Flowers “I’m going to put some stripes on your butt”; Kim right back “Yeah? Yours is going to shine like a light bulb”; Nikki running her eyes up and down the bodies of the opposing team, saying she wanted all of them, Erika Coons giving a look to Jodi Babler, who blushed pink from tip to toe, the first time I had ever seen her unsure of herself—after all, what would happen to her “moral superiority” if she were horse-whipped naked in front of all the boys on campus? I let this continue for a moment, then with a honk of the scoreboard, the teams lined up for the second half tip-off, the two reserves, Cynthia Houtz and Susan Delaney now in the game, Nikki Zoerb (who was now totally into it) and Ellen Arndorfer on the bench.

The third quarter was not as interesting as I had hoped—with two new girls on the court, the teams were awkward again, and there were a lot of miscues. But, with some manipulation of the earrings, and some “questionable” calls by the referee’s, I arranged that as the quarter ended, both teams were tied twenty-five to twenty-five. It was time for the final announcement from Biff, his authoritative voice reminding the girls of what the loser’s faced—

with a spotlight on the ropes tied up in the rafters and on the sex toys on the benches, the points were driven home. The coaches called the teams together for one last pep talk, firing the girls up for that extra win-or lose effort. When they took the court for the 4th quarter, their looks at each other were murderous.

Boy, they played hard! Boobs jiggling, asses shaking, their hair streaming out behind them (ALL the barrettes had fallen off), the ten pretty girls played the game of their life, drops of sweat dripping from their nipples and overflowing out of their belly buttons. As the workout increased, their supple female bodies danced back and forth across the court in a glorious display of feminine pulchritude. I could hear the breathing of the boys in the crowd change to a lower tone as everybody got into the moment, tuning out everything as they watched the women, bared to their female essence, struggle for victory. It was close. The Red Sneakers were actually behind by four points as the final minute began, and the crowd began counting off the seconds as it seemed that the Blue Sneakers would win the prize. But a quick midcourt shot by Nikki, followed by two steals and two lay-ups by, of all people, prudish Susan, put the Red Sneakers ahead by two points as the final five seconds came up. Long tall Cynthia Andrews began the end with a pass to Judi Metzger, who found her way blocked by Erika Coons. Her pink jugs flopping up and down, Judi made a quick pass to Jodi Babler.

Jodi, well-muscled and knowing her fate if she failed, desperately tried a full court shot that did hit the rim; circled it—and then dropped off the side to the floor.

The final buzzer honked. As planned, the Blue Sneakers had lost. The fact that Jodi would get the blame for losing it was icing on the cake.

CHAPTER 5

Mortification of the Flesh

The ropes came down from the gym ceiling, The Blue Sneakers were marched to predesignated spots on the gym floor. Their hands were cuffed into the ropes, which were then raised again so each girl was forced up onto tiptoe. Thin aluminum rods were also placed between their ankles, forcing their legs apart. In this awkward position went Ellen Arndorfer, Vicki Anderson, Cynthia Andrews (being over 6′7, she looked glorious strung up that way) Judi Metzger, Cynthia Houtz, and Jodi Babler, all of them completely exposed and helpless in front of the noisy male crowd, now becoming somewhat subdued as they realized what was coming. When the Blue Sneakers were all tied up and helpless, I did two things: First, I immediately disabled their earrings, and then I started a recorder.

It would do me little good at this point to have responses tainted by outside forces. The reactions of the girls to their predicament would have to happen without the influence of the conditioning. My recorder would register the physiological responses of a normal American girl who suddenly realizes that she is naked, helpless, and being sexually tortured in clear view of the male peers that she has to interact with every day. This would supply the sociological data I needed. The Blue Sneakers remained under the conditioning—as the actors, their compliance was more relevant than their responses.

The reactions of all six were basically the same. As their eyes ran up and down the crowd, they registered the lewd noises coming from the boys, as well as the video recorders and cameras catching every moment for history. Then they looked down, and examined their own bodies from toes to nipples, their faces growing redder and their expressions growing more horrified as they took in their own glorious nudity. Then their eyes focused on the TV tables in front of them, noting the whipping crops and soft shaving brushes displayed on them (the brushes had a diabolical purpose). Some of them began squirming, trying futilely to hide their nudity, others began trembling (Vicki’s enormous ass began shaking like jello). Then they all let out a low, animal moan...

“Ooohhh......”

The crowd roared its approval.

On command, the Red Sneakers picked up the whipping crops, making sure that the Blue Sneakers saw them doing so. Biff, up in the booth, placed the Red Sneakers as follows—big, strong Nikki Zoerb behind Vicki Anderson and her gargantuan ass (that would be a hard target to miss); Cathi Metzger behind her sister Judi (any sibling rivalry would have a chance to manifest itself now); preppie prude Susan Delaney behind tiny little Ellen Arndorfer; tiny, well-muscled Erika Coons behind Jodi Babler (payback time—racist pig Jodi had badmouthed Erika as a “gook” behind her back, and Erika HATED Jodi for it); mature, aggressive Kim Flowers behind shy, red-faced Cynthia Houtz, and plump, big-boobed Debbie behind the slim-figured and ultra-religious Cynthia Andrews. Their bodies glistening with sweat, all 12 girls stood ready for Phase One of the loser’s reward. Up in the booth, Biff asked the crowd “What’s the price of losing a game?”

Cued by some cards by my other confederates, the crowd yelled back “Bright Butt!”

Biff announced “Right on! Ladies (here a jolt to the Red Sneakers to make sure they paid attention)—spank your asses!”

The first one to lay down her crop was Nikki Zoerb. Stepping into her swing with all 210 lbs she carried, she laid her crop flat across Vicki Anderson’s titanic, tender ass.

“Yee-ow!” Vicki squirmed frantically, grimaced, and burst into tears. The crowd bellowed. The next in line was Cathi Metzger, who struck her sister’s ass with a tapping, half-hearted stroke. The crowd hooted in derision (“You call that whipping? Put your back into it young lady!”) Nevertheless, Cathi was reluctant to whip her sister full-force until a pleasure jolt, along with some instruction from one of my confederates, clued her in. Winding up like a baseball pitcher, Cathi put her full weight and muscle into a good, accurate crack against the ass of her protesting sister.

“No!!!” Judi squirmed in the ropes, her startlingly white ass immediately turning a bright pink. As the whipping went on, it would eventually turn as red as a cherry tomato, which showed up well on the photographs.

Susan Delaney had already started whipping Ellen Arndorfer, her crop creating stripes across her tiny behind. Ellen didn’t cry or scream—her eyes closed, she focused on enduring each stroke stoically, her face a mask of concentration. I noticed that nevertheless, her miniscule feet did a little dance on each stroke, betraying the effect that the whipping was having.

Erika Coons was having no trouble laying into Jodi Babler’s ass. A big smile on her face, Erika did big wind-ups and really began putting stripes on Jodi. Erika was one of the least vocally demonstrative people I had ever met, so it was surprising to hear her swearing at Jodi as she whipped her. Watching Jodi, I noted with deep satisfaction something I had never known—Jodi had no tolerance for pain at all (Good! She’d never had any trouble dishing it out!). Jodi really struggled, trying desperately to break the bonds restraining her, alternately threatening Erika and begging her to stop, ear-piercing, desperate shrieks coming out of her with every crack of the crop. Looking at the crowd of boys hooting at her, she first threatened them if they didn’t stop looking, but as the agony increased, began begging them to help her. It was a marvelous and deeply satisfying display.

Debbie Binder’s big boobs swayed and wetly slapped against each other as she stepped into her strokes, obviously having fun flogging Cynthia Andrews. Cynthia’s VERY long limbs pulled at the restraints, her long blonde hair brushing across her back, her thick pubic hair glistening like spun gold. Cynthia’s struggles against the whip where as graceful as a ballet performance and she weakly protested with a “no” on every stroke, hard little tears coming down her face as she endured the crop.

But the star of the show so far was Cynthia Houtz, the unfortunate target of Kim Flowers, who always went after what she wanted when she saw it. Her shyness violated to a degree she never imagined, Cynthia was the only one who’s face was redder than her ass. Her entire body glowing a soft pink from head to toe, she trembled uncontrollably, thick tears pouring out as she begged Kim to stop. Cynthia’s plump boobs jiggled and jumped, and her big pleading eyes roamed with horror over the hundreds of boys witnessing and cheering her humiliation. Aside from a shriek with every crack of the crop, her voice was loud with protests, threats, and pleas for an end to her degradation. Responding to such a marvelous performance, a group of about 20 boys (and two girls!) placed themselves right in front of her, their video cameras humming, their cameras clicking away. With so many eyes mercilessly trapping her in their gaze, Cynthia let out a howl of despair, hanging limp in the ropes as Kim, getting very excited, laid into her soft ass with even more gusto. When she noticed the cameras, she decided it was time to showboat a little.

“Hey boys”, she yelled; “Get a pic of this!”

“Oh, NO!!” screamed Cynthia, but it was too late. The cameras came in for a close up of an especially hard crack on her behind. Kim, brassy, gregarious, began taking requests from the boys on where to place the whip as Cynthia sobbed and protested.

Nikki, not to be outdone in any attention competition, picked Vicki up and turned her around, exposing her enormous behind to the hooting throng, which by this time would have glowed in the dark if the lights had been off. She began thrashing it from all angles, intrigued by the way it moved in any direction you wanted it to.

Erika continued to have her fun with Jodi, who was becoming desperate. Her mind blinded by the pain, Jodi was now just trembling on the restraints, crying loud and deep. Erika, her anger rising with each stroke, began lashing her with verbal abuse just as vicious as the whipping.

“Call me a gook! Come-on Babler, you were always so smart mouthed before! Call me a gook!”

Jodi, sweaty, tearful and trembling, caught the eye of a boy she knew in the crowd.

“For God’s sake, help me!” she pleaded.

This brought a storm of contempt from the audience. The boy in question yelled back: “Yeah Jodi, I’ll help! Somebody give me a whip, I’ll help!” Another yelled, rather uncreatively, “Suffer, bitch”.

Erika, sensing the crowd was with her, made a “watch this” gesture to them. Jodi, by this time, was beginning to break. Hanging limp on the restraints, the crack on her ample ass was wide open. Winding up with a vertical motion, Erika laid the crop full force on Jodi’s pink, tender asshole.

The howl that brought made the windows vibrate. Jodi ran the full range of screams from shrill to vibrato. The crowd cheered long and hard. Encouraged, Erika now made sure that every fifth or sixth stroke was laid against Jodi’s asshole...then, in a burst of inspiration, against her pussy and sensitive clit too.

Jodi Babler, arrogant, mean Jodi Babler, now found herself naked as the day she was born and singing a long aria of pain and humiliation for a more than appreciative audience. I grinned—there was no small measure of justice in this.

And so it went on, the Red Sneakers whipping the asses of the Blue Sneakers with a mounting fury. A number of things began to happen. First, the hoots and howls of the boys increased, as did the perspiration—and therefore odor—of the crowd. Second, whether whipper or whippee, the girls were engaged in vigorous physical activity, their heartbeats and adrenalin levels increasing, along with physical fatigue, which always saps the will. The whipped girls were discovering that throughout their buttocks were the nerve bundles that were also part of the general nerve net that worked it’s way through their lower spines and through their pussies and clits—it is possible to spank a girl to orgasm. And, beginning with Nikki, who to my knowledge was never NOT sexually aroused, pussy juice began dripping onto the floor of the gym. And in that juice are powerful pheromones that affect girls just as much as boys.

The cheers and smell of the boys—the general physical simulation from being either the whipper or the whippee—and the pheromones the girls gave off to each other, along with the simulation of the general nerve ganglia that passed through the buttocks...all resulted in an effect I had hoped would happen.

All the girls were becoming sexually aroused.

It first became clear with Erika Coons, whose nipples soon grew as hard as pencil erasers. Cynthia Andrew’s blonde pubic hair began to glisten with the juice of her arousal (a sensation she was not well familiar with—I noted she was surprised), as did Judi Metzger. Ellen Arndorfer’s child-like body had very little pubic hair—just a few thin blonde strands—so the swelling of her labia and the tumenescence of her tiny little clit were clearly visible to the crowd. Timid Cynthia Houtz tried her best to hide it from the crowd, but when the photo crew in front of her began photographing her swelling clit, she realized she was exposed.

The mystery was fat-assed Vicki Anderson—between her legs was a pussy that was just as small as her ass was large, and the degree of arousal she was feeling could not be measured by visual inspection alone. I checked the brainwave patterns on my transceiver display; no doubt, she was getting horny.

And while painful, the stokes laid against Jodi Babler’s pussy and clit also had a telling effect. As it stiffened and popped into view, it became obvious that her clit was huge, and it showed up very well in the photographs later.

With a honk from the scoreboard, the whipping ceased. Exhausted, the Blue Sneakers sagged in their ropes while the Red Sneakers huffed and puffed, catching their breath after the strenuous workout.

The PA system came alive. “Ladies, grab your shaving brushes!” Biff’s voice was as authoritative as ever.

It was time for Phase Two.