I did not intend to enter the auditorium, filled with more than one hundred of the undergraduate students for whom I TA, wearing only my underwear and bra. But that is what I ended up doing.
When I stepped into the building, I was clothed. I know this because I looked down at my phone and saw my clothes in my periphery. At some point during my walk down the hallway to the auditorium, my dress and cardigan vanished, a fact that introduced more questions than it answered.
This was not something I would have done on purpose. Invariably I wore conservative outfits to work because I attracted unwanted attention in the athleisure clothes I preferred. Men in the back rows would raise their hands and point at some page of their textbook that they claimed they could neither understand nor paraphrase, and ask me for clarification, so that I had to come stand beside them to read the passage in question. Many of them would try to touch my shoulder or arm or lower back, but I always grabbed their wrists and removed their hand so that they would feel uncomfortable, and learn not to try again. One student, after I declined his request for a tutor-with-benefits arrangement, told me I had “the kind of body that causes men psychic pain.” This was not the way I wanted people to perceive me while I was on the clock. Exhibiting to my students was the last thing I would have chosen to do.
Other than a vague sense that the temperature dropped as I opened the auditorium doors, I didn’t immediately notice the disappearance of my dress or cardigan. It didn’t even occur to me as a possibility. No one pulled my dress over my head. No one yanked my cardigan off by the collar. My first clue to look down was the carpet rubbing against my bare feet. The second was my students’ faces.
I was a few minutes late, so they were already heads-down, hushed, bubbling their exam scantrons. Thanks to the door’s screeching hinge, my entrance demanded everyone’s attention. A hundred faces stared at me while the door’s pneumatic stopper moaned closed for four long seconds. Only after the final metal clank into the door frame had stopped echoing off the auditorium’s far walls did I at last look down to confirm the origin of the high-resolution carpet sensations on my feet and the cause of the class’s fixation on me. My total outfit was two articles: a gray cloth pair of underwear, a gray cloth sports bra. Nothing else. Not even my purse remained, nor what I had in it.
What confused me most, even more than the premise of my clothes’ disappearance—itself hard to swallow—was that their disappearance was complete. There were no lingering threads, as there would be if the dress had been unwoven. There were not even plausible articles of clothing nearby. The immediate twenty-foot radius around me included only two objects, the professor’s lectern and a small trash bin. It appeared to my students as if I had simply chosen not to dress, walked to campus, and entered the class late and loudly on an exam day to attract as much attention as possible. And it would be easy for them to believe this, because I was already a known quantity.
As a personal rule during my tenure as TA, I rejected all first advances. My rejections were final, my language in both body and words purged of all warmth and affection that might come across to the overconfident as encouragement to try again. Most of them felt shame and avoided me for the rest of the term, but for Blake Sutherland I broke my rule. He never needed my help—he defeated all of the exams without much effort at all—but asked for it anyway, and flirted overtly. My reputation had preceded me. I had rejected three of his friends, he told me, and several more acquaintances, and then said I possessed his ideal figure and winked. This, on the surface, disgusted me. The raw misogyny of it. The posture he took with his friends, sitting nearby, that said: you may not have had a chance with her, but I’m the protagonist of this world, and she belongs to me. How sweet it would have been to render justice and humiliate him on the spot, I thought. Yet that was not my only temptation. His friends expected me to humiliate him. They saw him embarrassing himself and expected him to suffer for it the way they expected a baseball to fall down once thrown up. Inevitably. How much would it upset them, and disrupt their understanding of the world, if I gave Blake exactly what he wanted? Or even more than he wanted? The more powerful temptation, somehow, was to wreck the smug expectations of these eavesdroppers.
I proposed a tutor-with-benefits relationship, at no charge. For a month, I went to his dorm in the undergrad building every Friday night, stripped naked in the hallway before I knocked, and taught him chemistry while he fingered me. I had to keep reading aloud, or explaining the text, or else he would stop. I read for as long as I could, but I always felt overwhelmed well before orgasm and choked up, so I never came. Even if after I recovered from choking up I forced myself to start naming chemical bonds again, it didn’t matter. A speechlessness guarded my orgasms. Choking up when nearing them was inevitable. But even if I was frustrated to agony, I always sucked him off before I left.
During our sessions, I did not mind if his friends were in the room, and they often were. In fact, I liked it. If they weren’t around I probably would have tired of the arrangement. Blake was just someone I had cast in a drama I was putting on for his friends, who I had rejected, and wanted to demean even further. I wanted them to see that yes, I rejected you, but your friend? The arrogant one that you compare yourself to between clicking the lights off and falling asleep? The one that makes you feel small? I’ll be his toy. He has something you don’t, something you’ll never have. I’m so thirsty for him that I forget myself. I’m eager to sate his every craving.
Did they get the message? I couldn’t know for sure, but I thought so. I often caught them staring at me while I was over. And when his roommate was playing shooter games I noticed he died much more often when I started moaning in the other half of the room.
But Blake wanted more no matter how much he got. And he was jealous. He wanted my phone passcode, which I gave him, and then he wanted to know the story behind all the probable male names in my iMessage history. Eventually I tired of these antics, and cut him off a few days before the incident, which of course his friends eagerly told everyone about as if it were the prophesied restoration of the natural order. So my conspicuous entrance that day fit snug into the gossip everyone had been following already as a new and interesting but not terribly surprising plot point in my established pattern of deviant behavior.
The other thing I did not intend to do that afternoon, but did do, was take my bra off, step out of my underwear, and toss both into the auditorium seating at no one in particular. My body moved on its own, without me, and this was so strange that as it happened I could not understand it well enough to panic. Someone else was in my mind, guiding my thoughts, pushing me to do things I didn’t, myself, want to do. I was ensnared by puppet strings.
I walked to Blake’s desk in the front row, sat on it, and coyly turned away from him. He reached between my legs.
That was when I thought to wonder. My rationalizations earlier, for tutoring him naked, for letting his friends see me suck him off, were they my own? They couldn’t have been. There was no precedent for such behavior in my life. He had planted ideas in my head. For some reason, maybe because after our time together he’d nurtured the seeds of what, to him, were sincere feelings, he let my free will reemerge and gave me a choice. But he didn’t like the choice I made.
He licked two fingers and found my clit and triggered an arousal that did not belong to me. If any feelings originated in my own heart, they were fear and an urge to bolt out of the room, but his feelings bore down on me from above, exerting such coercive weight that even as I wanted to escape, I spread my legs and tilted my head back to invite his touch and his kisses on my neck. The arousal was his. There was no need for him to finger me well, though he did—he modulated the pleasure in my mind directly. He reached into the lower, animal parts of my mind and planted there a thirst for himself, and turned the volume up on that thirst to such a level I could not think of anything else, least of all the auditorium full of spectators to this shameful display. Though I fought his influence with my full heart, it was like pushing against a tank as it rolled slowly forward, uninhibited, unaware of any resistance. I kissed him and invited his tongue into my mouth. I put his hand on my throat. I flipped onto my knees and elbows and begged him to spank me.
Just before I came, he stopped fingering me, and blew lightly instead, as if blowing out a candle, and just the cold air was enough. I squirted onto the neighboring desk. I convulsed in his arms for so long that I became impatient for it the convulsions to stop, lost track of time, and became impatient again.
Only once I fell limp, and he’d made his point, did I regain the capacity to move and feel of my own volition, and I didn’t know what to do except walk to the nearest restroom, hide inside the stall, and stare at the stall latch with an empty mind for several hours.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/wzjx92/my_mistake_mind_control_mf_exhibition
So well written!! 🙌🏽