Learning Math

Content Warning: Non-consensual erotic hypnosis.

“No offense, professor, but that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. No way that’s true.”

“Why do you say that, Jessica?”

“If you had hypnotized me, you’d be making me do all sorts of ridiculous stuff, but the only thing you've done since I got here was tutor me."

“I see. Jessica, who do you think I am?”

“What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just bear with me. Who do you think I am."

"You're my math professor."

“So you probably see a lot of me during math class, correct?”

“Duh, where else would I know you from?”

“Okay. Now, during math class--where you see so much of me--do I stand at the front?”

“Nnnooooo, you sit next to me. You always do.”

“That seems like a strange place for a professor to sit. Do I lecture from a seat next to you?”

“No, some old guy lectures. You just sit quietly and take notes.”

“Why would I--a professor--do that? Why do you think I sit next to a student while someone else teaches my class?”

“I always just assumed you were evaluating your TA.”

“Every day?”

“Well he certainly seems to need it. Everything he says is always so slurred and...gloopy. If you weren’t passing me your lecture notes during class, I’d probably be failing.”

“You don't need to worry about that, Jessica. You're a diligent student. If you continue applying yourself as you have been, you'll pass my class for certain."

“Okay, I appreciate that, but if we're done playing 20 questions can we get back to work? I'm still struggling with this equation. I know Cock + Mouth = Happy Cumslut, but I don't understand how to get there on my own. I'll need to show my work on the test, right? I have to understand the method."

"Yes, you will need to show your work. Why don't you get back to it? You're on the right track, and I'm confident you'll understand the answer soon."

Jessica lowered her head back onto her "professor's" cock.

"By the way," he continued "Did I mention we're having the test in your boyfriend's dorm room?"

The muffled sound she made in reply was an exasperated affirmative.

Death of the Woman You Used to Be

Content Warning: This is a story about rape, captivity, torture, and mind control. It is smutty fiction and intended only as a bit of kinky fun. Anyone who takes these ideas seriously is abhorrent. 

This is where it ends.

It starts with a fight. With you struggling until your muscles go limp; screaming until your voice breaks. That's the day your true self is born. The girl who has felt her weakness. The girl who has learned reverence for a man's strength. The girl who knows her place. On that first day she is only a small voice in the back of your mind, but she will grow.

The voice is nurtured during long months of restraint: chains, gags, rigid schedules, and locked doors. With imperceptible slowness your true self takes firmer and firmer root in your mind. The nagging whine of the woman you were grows softer, more distant. You begin to internalize the restraints. You stop testing if the doors are locked. They've always been locked, they must be locked. One day he doesn't put the gag back in after finish with you. Your first instinct is to remind him. You stop yourself, and feel embarrassed for nearly speaking without being spoken to. It never occurs to you how far your values have shifted. It's one example among a thousand that the woman you used to be is losing influence over your mind.

The withered remains of that unhappy creature tries to rationalize. You're being obedient because you need to appear obedient. Need him to become complacent so he'll make the kind of big mistake that will allow you to escape. Later you realize he's been taking you out in public for months. You could have escaped at any time, but escape doesn't have the appeal it used to have.

Now we're back at the end. All that is left is this girl. The true you. The girl who understands her place in the world. She knows that to be controlled is to be loved. She knows that to be obedient and pleasing is to be happy, and she is very, very happy.

The Myth of Women With Low Sex Drive

Content Warning: The following eroticizes both misogyny and gender essentialism. It dresses them up in faux-scientific language. These ideologies are harmful, and are indulged here only as smutty fantasy. 

It is a myth that women have a low sex drive. In evolutionary terms, the only benefit to the female aberration is to offload the burdens of reproduction onto a subset of the species. Since reproduction is its only purpose, sex is one of the few instincts a woman has. Only through centuries of harsh psychological conditioning has this instinct been restrained. A modern woman’s sex drive is gated behind brainwashing which tells her she must seek to have value beyond sex. As sex is the only value a woman can have--determined by her very biology--this is a paradoxical desire. A cruel trick played on these simple creatures by less enlightened minds. 

The only cure for this malediction is to remove everything that isn’t sex. The woman cannot be allowed to see, or to hear, or to speak. She must be stripped of dignity and identity. Even basic mobility must be denied. Her perception of place, and of self, must be broken down until there is nothing left. During this process the one point of reference in her personal void will be sexual gratification. It may seem cruel, but it would be far more cruel to allow her to continue suffering under her delusions.

When the subject ceases to resist, her access to gratification should be gradually reduced, and eventually removed entirely. It's not enough for her to enjoy sex, she must learn to pursue it. Once she has reached the stage of constantly searching for any surface on which to rub herself, the cure is complete. She will never go back to the way she was, and everything that was taken from her may be returned without fear. Her mind has been "reset," and her natural instincts have reasserted themselves. Without intentional reconditioning her sex drive will not drop to inappropriate levels again.

It should be noted that, once restored, a woman's desires are insatiably constant. This is both healthy and correct, but can also be exhausting. It may provide some clue as to the origins of that cruel conditioning which still afflicts the women of today. Fortunately we have much more humane and modern options. Sturdy chastity devices, combined with mindless and repetitive tasks can be used to keep a woman occupied until she is wanted.

Elusive Memories

Content Warning: This story presents anti feminism, sex trafficking, and mind control in an erotic context. It is intended only as an erotic fantasy.

Ceiling...walls...a bed...voices. Piece by piece the world around Sam clicked into focus. Memory and self rose to the surface of a fogged mind. With clarity came another desperate attempt to parse what was going on. She didn't know how long it had been since she'd been lucid, and didn't know how long she had before her mind would lose its grip and fade away again.

The last thing she knew she remembered was the women's march. She'd been parched from shouting along the the slogans. There was a woman with glassy eyes, and a duffel bag full of water bottles. She'd given one to Sam. That's when things got blurred for the first time. After that was a vague sense that she was being moving. Not under her own power...carried. Then there was a van. Commanding male voices. At some point she'd come to in something like a holding cell. She remembered it was like the place she'd been taken after getting arrested at a protest once, but this place was darker, and quiet. There had been other women there. Women from the march. All had glassy eyes. They were unresponsive. At least...Sam thought they were unresponsive. She remembered trying to talk to them, but couldn't remember if she'd actually said anything.

Then there were other blurs, punctuated with other fuzzy memories. Other quiet rooms filled with quiet women. Men examining her body with clinical lust. There were injections. Male voices whispering instructions that had stuck in her mind like flies on a glue trap. However much she may have forgotten, she knew with absolute certainty that "Position 1" meant she had to kneel with her hands palm-up, and her mouth open. "Position 2" was face down, arms forward, butt in the air, back arched. "Position 3" was on her back, arms holding her knees wide apart. "Position 4" was...wait, why had she started reviewing positions? She tried to force her mind back into the present.

She remembered the airport, and the plane. Now she was in a bedroom furnished the way only hotel bedrooms are. Her clothes were...not hers. A wide mesh that left her exposed. Not something would ever choose to wear. There were two men standing just in front of her at the foot of the bed. They were talking. Talking about...money? She realized one was staring at her. Right at her. He was leering. For reasons she couldn't understand she gave him an inviting smile and a seductive wink. Finally her mind caught up with what was going on, with what they'd done to her, what she was about to do for them. It was too late. Her vision was getting blurry. Her last thought was to wonder how many times she'd figured it out before. The the thing called "Sam" disappeared, leaving behind a creature whose only instinct was to please, and obey.

Dead Eyed Cheerleader in Her 30s

Most people who are a big deal in highschool will eventually discover that it made them overconfident. Launched them on a shallow trajectory through life which peaked early, and will come crashing down all too soon. They didn't have to make an effort, so they didn't learn how to make an effort. That worked for them, until it didn't.

So what if you got your tits early? Every girl has tits now, yours aren't special. Who cares if your mom showed you how to put on makeup in the 4th grade? Even the nerds can watch YouTube tutorials, and theirs will probably look better than the blobs of mascara smeared around your eyes. It doesn't matter than you were the first girl in your grade to put a dick in your mouth. We're grownups. Every girl sucks dick, and since most of them were competing against you they learned to do a lot better than the timid head bobbing you still rely on.

That's why every day you work a dead end cashier's job that you're barely qualified for. It's why, on your days off, you prowl your way through Facebook looking for the guys who lusted for you back in the glory days. Guys who have built you up in their minds into something more than you are. Guys who can make you feel like a cheerleader again when you go down on them.

But each guy eventually gets tired of how boring you are. Some of the mystique is lost after they watch you spit their cum in the sink because you still think you're too good to swallow. As the years go by there are fewer and fewer of them left for you to fuck, and your standards get lower. The guys keep getting uglier and meaner. Eventually you'll cling to the worst of them, learn to do the nasty things you should have learned to do before. Because if you let him go the glory of your highschool years will be lost forever.