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 DISCLAIMER: Do not even attempt to read this if you are below the age of
majority where you come from.  DO NOT.  Anyone older is free to make the
attempt.

   EXAM LEAVE

   Exams are a pain in the arse. God, look at that.  A sentence in and I'm
ahead of myself already.  I just wanted to get that off my chest, I
suppose. OK.  I'm 18, I go to a public school.  That's a private school,
but they call it a public school.  Public schools are called state schools.
You think you're confused? I'm Robert Clark. And, being 18, British, and
still at school, I have to deal with these things called A-levels.  This is
our equivalent to the SATs, if the SATs are what I understand them to be.
They're what get you into university, or fail to do so. But, and as far as
I can determine this is different to the American system, you apply before
you even sit the exams, based on predictions.  You then get an offer and
attempt to achieve the grades required.  This leads to three distinct
stressful times over the school year: the wait after the application for
offers, sitting the bloody things, and waiting to see if your results are
what they should be. This is a lot of stress, and stress is something I
don't like.  My traditional response to that is to think about something
else, so I did.  I did my thinking in the bowels of the town library, just
searching for whatever I could find.  Old issues of British science fiction
magazines long defunct by the time my father was born, Boy's Own comics - a
window into a different age, when the kids who unearthed crime didn't
bother with a cowardly dog and didn't even think about associating with
girls, let alone girls who wanted to be boys and called themselves George.
A truly bizarre world. King & Country; the magazine that purported to tell
the Tommies the truth about the war but probably didn't. Papers on the
occult from people who really believed the crap they were spouting, a fact
which completely escaped me until someone pointed out Thomas Hardy didn't
believe any of the stuff in stories like The Withered Arm was fantastical.
Even then I had to check the dates before I grasped that less than a
century ago we believed in that shit. Only it probably wasn't all shit, and
the notebook that proved that also showed that the British didn't reproduce
by fission, which was about as likely as sex to judge by the other stuff I
was reading.  This, of course, the advantage of the national library, or
whatever it's called - if it was printed during or after the sixteenth
century in the English language, and in some cases even if it wasn't,
they've got a copy of it somewhere.  I tried looking in that stuff to start
with, but there's no helping some people's spelling. A little pamphlet with
a bunch of stuff in Cyrillic, Arabic, Greek, and even a little in the
alphabet I know and...  know.  Quite why it had all the other languages on
it at the time it was printed - when English had become the language of
learning - I didn't know.  I still don't. *** I took it to the French
teacher, who spoke the languages I figured were there as well as French. 
Nice young lady, really; so young it's like she's just come out of Uni
herself.  Everyone calls her 'Babyface' though not to her face.  Irritating
Geordie accent which you'd have thought someone who's mastered the right
accent for French could get rid of, but she likes it.  All in all, I'm glad
I dropped French, but she was the best lead I had for decrypting this
thing, so to speak. I left it with her overnight, and turned up the next
day.  Exam leave had started, so I figured if I went when she normally
taught the upper sixth we'd be able to keep this private.  This is habit
with me; I keep everything quiet, generally.  And I especially wouldn't let
it be known I was going to the teacher with extracurricular stuff.  It's
just not done. "Hi, Robert," she said, in that irritating accent of hers.
"Hi," I said, quietly.  Chatting to a teacher never did quite feel right. I
guess Miss Robins wasn't too bad looking, a little chubby for my taste, but
not too bad; not actually fat.  But the fact remains, you don't associate
with teachers if you can avoid it.  I walked over to the desk she sat at.
"Uh, about-" She elbowed me in the solar plexus.  I broke off my sentence,
let my breath out fast, and doubled over.  Fingers pressed into my temples
like steel pincers grabbing nuclear waste.  They began to circle, never
losing their tightness.  Her little fingers began to drum at the skin above
my eye in my eye socket.  I heard her repeating something I didn't
understand, some weird mantra. The rest of my body seemed miles away; just
the manipulations around my brain remained.  It was like an out-of-body
experience where they'd made me take my head along during a bad hangover.
And what was this with the eye socket?  I'm no expert on acupressure, but I
thought the headache points were on the feet.  I had a headache, and I'm
almost certain she knew I did, and that she was causing it, but I thought
all the brain links were down on the feet. Clearly I was wrong, and I
didn't like the knowledge. I blanked out. *** Miss Robins was naked in
front of me, and I wasn't in the least bit interested.  I looked down to
check; no reaction whatsoever, just lying totally limp.  Which meant I was
naked too; I'd expected just to be checking the absence of a bulge in my
suit - yes, public school, we have to wear suits - but clearly someone had
been busy while I was out.  I had a nasty feeling, though I couldn't see
how, that it had been me. Now, perhaps a lack of an erection wasn't utterly
impossible, but I just wasn't interested.  Not even in the fact that there
was a naked person in front of me, nor that I was naked, which should have
panicked me.  It didn't, but the fact that it didn't was starting alarm
bells ringing dimly in my brain.  They just weren't reaching my mind, the
conscious part of me; it was like I'd been shut out of my body's control
room, just a detached observer. Which I definitely didn't like; the alarm
bells got louder and louder, but nothing physically happened.  I should at
least have had faster breathing, something like that.  But...  no, nothing.
Nothing whatsoever.  I tried picking up my shirt, lying down by my feet;
not a twitch.  I wasn't in control of my limbs any more. Miss Robins was in
control of hers, though; she walked over to me and popped a nipple in my
mouth.  I responded straight away, or rather my body did, sucking away,
teasing it with gentle tugs from my teeth, running the tip of my tongue
over it as lightly as I could. And down below, something dimly told me the
lion wasn't asleep in it's jungle anymore.  I wasn't interested in that,
either. She seemed to sense that; taking my hand in hers she led it to her
entrance.  My fingers briefly skimmed her pubic hair before resting on her
labia and then spiralling down in slow, rhythmic circles until an indrawn
breath told me I'd found her clitoris, and I began to work.  I still wasn't
interested.  Then I became aware of her mouth stooped down by my ear; her
breath floated over it as she whispered sweet somethings to me.  "Take a
little interest in your work, slave." I mumbled something that was probably
"Yes, mistress" - I didn't know, nor did I care - as I continued to please
her.  Suddenly the situation seemed erotic; feeling returned again, and the
vague awareness of my penis standing erect turned into a highly important
fact written across my sensorium in six-foot-high glowing capital letters.
It was like an entirely new sensation, like I'd never even had a quick
experimental wank before, let alone sex - and, just as on the occasion of
that first twelve-year-old wank, I liked this new concept.  In fact, I was
getting the same signals as I'd had on the day I lost my virginity, which
are a hell of a lot stronger than solo, despite the fact no one was paying
it any attention.  I quickly rectified that with my free hand.  but Miss
Robins slapped it away again. This was starting to get annoying.  "You
can't come," she whispered. "I can't come, mistress," I replied, but since
it was going through a breast it came out a little garbled.  My free hand
was snatched up and applied to her free breast.  It clung and began working
in tandem with my mouth, duplicating what it did as well as it could. She
reached under my balls and gripped something.  I became aware of something
cold stuck firmly into my backside.  A quick click and it shuddered into
life.  I had a vibrator stuck in me, and I was actually enjoying it; which
was wrong, as far as I knew.  I'd never had the least interest in anal sex
before.  But then, this whole situation was wrong. She pushed me abruptly
and I slowly toppled backward, with her riding me down, onto the desk.  She
climbed on top of me and substituted my erect penis for my fingers, then
shifted herself around until she'd got me positioned the way she wanted me.
"Fuck me, slave," she said.  I did was I was bid. *** We were dressed
again, and she told me what she'd done.  Explained the hypnotic procedure
to me.  Ordered me 'never to tell anyone', which I accepted with the same
monotonous reply I'd been using up until then.  Thankfully, she removed the
proscription on my penis; I could come again. "I just wanted to check it
worked," she said.  "And then I couldn't resist taking advantage.  Have
fun." She flashed me a wide smile, and turned away from me.  Big mistake. I
took her legs out from under her and dropped onto her back, knees first. 
My hands found her head, my fingers began to circle over her temples as if
in an attempt to bore through them.  My little fingers curled down and
started beating out a rhythm on the skin in her eye sockets. She clearly
didn't really understand the concept of revenge.  And while she clearly
understood the potential of what I'd dug out of the library, she didn't
want to use it.  Moronic, by my standards at least.  Power, that's key. 
With this sort of power, even if inductions were a decidedly one-on-one
phenomenon, you could do more or less anything. I started to recite the
mantra.  Recollection thrilled through me; what it had been like succumbing
to this process myself, what Miss Robins was going through. She'd made me
unable to come; even if she released me from that, letting me remain aware
of what she'd done had been a big mistake.  If it wasn't for that
particular assault to - and on - my manhood, I'd have let her go.  But I
wasn't about to.  I was going to do something permanent to her and I was
going to make sure she remembered exactly what I'd done.  And I'd remember
to lock in proscriptions against being controlled in return; she'd been
careless, not thinking things through in advance. I felt her physical
struggle, trying to throw me off her back, cease.  I felt her limbs grow
dormant, quiescent; and I knew they were now under my control, at my
disposal, not hers; and I loved that.  I knew from personal experience her
mind was due to go the same way very shortly, and I couldn't wait to screw
up her psyche utterly.  And block her from visiting psychiatrists to try to
repair it. She was engaged, I remembered, though they weren't yet living
together - odd, in this day and age, but there you go; it was probably why
she'd picked me to play with rather than lover boy.  I decided I was going
to change his life spectacularly, too.  I wondered how he'd react to the
realisation that after marriage his bride would be exclusively lesbian. 
And uninterested in sex at that.  Or maybe I'd have her buy the smallest
dildo she could find and tell him fucking herself with that was a lot
better than anything he could do.  See if I could give him some serious
insecurity problems.  Have her give him occasional presents; penis
extenders, Viagra... but always withhold herself from him.  Which wasn't
being nice to her, either.  She'd turned my ability to come off; I was
going to do far worse to her. A change in the feeling my little fingers
were getting from their drumming on the skin around her eyes first alerted
me to the fact she'd blacked out.  I pulled her up and propped her in her
chair, then stood back to take a look at my success.  Tried to remember her
first name from the school magazine. Emily, that was it. "Emily, can you
hear me?" I asked. "Yes..." she whispered.  It wasn't the almost robotic
voice I'd used in acknowledging what she'd ordered me to do, more a kind of
half-asleep eagerness, if you can imagine that. I grinned at that, and
suddenly wondered if there was any protocol for phrasing the orders. 
Studying computer systems will yet be my downfall.  So I looked at the
stuff on her desk, and sure enough, lying on top of her lesson planner was
a sheet of handwritten instructions for after induction.  None of which the
bitch had decided to tell me.  Failing to get them right would snap the
subject out of it after only a couple of mistakes.  Someone had had some
more embarrassment for me in mind.  And trouble. I deciphered her
handwriting, making a neat copy of it myself - translating teachers'
handwriting is a subdiscipline of decoding hieroglyphics, as anyone who's
looked at their report can tell you.  I pocketed her version and referred
to my own, spoke the words written in English on the original. "Your mind
is asleep though your brain still thrives," I said.  "My mind is in
control." "Your mind is in control..." she whispered.  The buzz of power
brought my erection back.  As I've said, she wasn't that bad looking, just
a little flabbier than my dream girl.  No flat stomach, legs not as trim as
I'd have wanted, but beyond that, not at all bad. "My control will remain
while your mind is awake.  My will has the power to dominate yours."
Whoever thought this up, I reflected, wanted his ego boosted at every turn.
"Your control will remain while my mind is awake.  Your will has the power
to dominate mine." And after that it was straightforward command time,
though apparently these commands included pretty much total access to their
minds. "Your cunt is switched off.  You will never again experience any
degree of sexual excitement." "My cunt is switched off..." "You may still
react outwardly as if sexually excited, but you will never experience an
orgasm again.  You will never feel hot, horny, or in any way turned on." "I
will never experience an orgasm again..." "Your memory of previous orgasms
will remain in total clarity, even enhanced in the pleasure you received,
but it will only be available to you as longing for a repeat, which will
happen every half an hour, or as a comparison to the utter absence of
sensation you feel when you have sex from now on.  You will masturbate four
times in every twenty-four hour period, at which times your desperate hope
for that remembered orgasm will reach levels that almost make you want to
kill yourself in despair when they are unfulfilled." "I will masturbate
four times in every twenty-four hour period..." "For at least half an hour
at a time," I said smoothly, interrupting her.  "On the first day after
your marriage, on your honeymoon, you will visit a sex aid shop.  You will
buy the smallest dildo they have and that night will reject your husband's
advances in favour of fucking yourself with the dildo in front of him.  You
will tell him that this brings you far more pleasure than he ever has.  You
will continue to emasculate him in this way throughout your marriage,
giving him things that suggest a lack of masculinity as presents.  And you
will never, ever, have sex with him after your marriage." "I will never
have sex with him..." "You will not attempt to put me back under your
control," I continued.  "You will remember what I have done to you and you
will feel however you want to about that, but you will not do anything that
might have any negative repercussions for me.  This includes never allowing
anyone to find out what I did to you in any way." "I will not attempt to
put you back under my control..." "You will go on frequent trips to London
that you will explain to your husband as shopping tricks.  You will wear
sensible clothes, but you will carry sexy clothes with you.  You will work
out until you lose this excess fat and you will strictly monitor your diet
to ensure that once your stomach is flat it remains so.  You will spend
your shopping trips in the sexy clothes, prostituting yourself, pandering
to the most depraved and perverted section of the populace.  The money you
receive from this will be used to rent a flat to take your customers back
to and to have breast enlargements.  Following that, the money will be used
to become utterly self-reliant.  You will estrange yourself from your
husband and live on your own.  If he visits you, you will take out a court
injunction against him ever coming near you again.  But you will not
divorce him, and you will love him utterly devotedly.  However, you will
never come into contact with him.  You will not allow yourself to.  In five
seconds, your mind will return to wakefulness.  You will remember these
commands, but you will still obey them." She started to repeat what I'd
told her.  With that, I left.  I didn't bother to see how she responded.  I
already knew. *** I didn't do much with my new power for a while.  As
already noted, it's strictly a one-at-a-time induction; you've got to have
privacy.  So I went back home, I looked over my exam timetable, and worked
out who'd be where.  I picked an afternoon exam which a number of eminently
attractive girls were going to, and I went in first thing in the morning.
The school, bless it's little cotton socks, has provided us with a sixth
form centre that used to be the dorms for the young boys, but has plenty of
space.  Lower sixth - the year below me - are all banged up in a single,
big private study room; we've got the rest of them, scattered about the
place, normally two or three to a room.  This being exam leave, of course,
all you got in there were girl boarders who wanted a bit of peace (girl's
dorms are nearby - the sixth form lad's dorms are actually on a different
site to the rest of the school, so they stay there). Like Keunhee.
Keunhee's one of our students whose parents managed to find out about a
relatively minor British public school despite living somewhere on the
other side of Russia, and - perhaps more astonishing - decided to send
their kids to said school.  She's Korean, petite, relatively big-breasted
for her size, keeps herself in shape (my principal problem with Miss
Robins) and has legs to die for.  She also understands English better than
some of the natives round here.  I think, since most of our Asian
classmates are older than us, she's 20; but it hardly really matters. And
she gets very stressed about exams. "Morning," I called, as I came through
the door. "Good morning," she said.  She's not that uptight, but she had a
very scrupulous grammar teacher and we haven't quite broken her out of the
habit of exact English; not completely, anyway.  "What are you doing here?"
I dropped into the chair at the desk next to her and sighed.  "Oh..." I
pulled a tattered old paperback - Pratchett I think it was - out of my
jacket pocket and chucked it onto the desk with a flick of my wrist,
emphasising my disinterest.  "Well, this was the latest time I could sponge
a lift off my parents and not have to pay for transport." I live about ten
minutes' walk away, but Keunhee had no way of knowing that.  Very few
people at the school did; I keep myself to myself, as I've said. "Oh,
right," she said.  Whoever taught her English was conscientous in the
extreme; you could hear the 't' click into place.  Consonants at the end of
words have become such a rarity around here you forget they're supposed to
be included. "How about you?" I asked, being friendly. "Oh..." She let her
voice trail away.  The emotions in that single syllable spoke volumes.
"Helen," I said.  Helen's cute, but...  well, you know there's always at
least one major bitch and one complete dickhead at any given school?  Helen
was our bitch.  And not in the prison sense, either.  I had plans for her
too, later. She nodded.  "Yes, Helen is really starting to annoy me." A
slight smile.  I wondered whether what I was going to do was worth it.  I
reminded myself I was male, and that steeled me for it. "Only starting?" I
asked, with a grin.  She laughed, and glanced back down at her work.  Big
mistake. I reached out and pressed my fingers to her temples, starting the
chant.  Helen often studied in the next room; she'd be over in about half
an hour to piss Keunhee off further, if I was any judge.  I'd get her then;
Keunhee, being my eternal slave by that time, could hardly object.  Katie
always came in early, so at one the girls would be dressed again and
presenting a normal facade.  Then I'd get Katie, who's managed to hold much
of my sexual interest for the last six years.  Three is enough for one day;
maybe I'd add to my store later, but after the exam they'd walk home with
me.  And they'd stay there.  Anyone worrying about them would simply be
given the treatment at the first opportunity I got and they'd forget there
was a problem. And Helen would spend quite a bit of time kissing our butts.
Yep; all things considered, things were looking up. *** I even passed my
exams.  I'm going on to Nottingham University to study English after the
holidays.  And Katie's coming with me, loyal girl that she is. I've sent
Keunhee home to her family; she was a great novelty, but I've got bored
with her.  I turned Helen into a masochist; she had £30,000 in a trust fund
for Uni.  I suspect a lot of it's going to go on the first lesbian
dominatrix she finds.  I've left her personality coiled up at the centre of
her mind, the new Helen around it making all the decisions.  For the rest
of her life, she'll be getting pain and pleasure from all the humiliation
her new mistress ladles over her. I think I'd have done a lot to Helen
anyway, but the particular vehemence I used has a lot to do with Miss
Robins.  The idea of shutting off sexual functions, of warping them, I'd
never imagined that before her.  And I'd imagined what I could do with
complete control over those three girls many a time. Or maybe that's me
trying to salve my conscience.  I'm going to get Katie to put me under and
turn that off for a while, I think.  Then I can examine this more clearly.
   THE END