tagMind ControlCamilla Ch. 067

Camilla Ch. 067


Monday was Labor Day, Camilla's last day of summer vacation before beginning university. That morning around 11 AM, she and Candice woke up with a blanket over them to cover up their nakedness; obviously Agape, who was in the kitchen, had woken up earlier, gone down into the living room, and seen the naked girls sleeping there on the floor; he then put a blanket over them.

"I'll bet your dad was more than surprised to see us like this," Candice said as she reached for her dress.

"I'll bet he's thinking about other things right now," Camilla said, remembering how she almost committed incest with him the night before; then she put on her clothes.

"About what happened last night between you and him," Candice said. "I'm..."

"I don't wanna talk about it," Camilla said in visible agitation. I need distractions from Daddy, she thought; I need men...lots of men.

When they finished getting dressed, they went into the kitchen. Sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in front of him, Agape was clearly hungover and in terrible pain. Camilla simply touched him on the shoulder and Nigrovum did the rest: within seconds, he felt much better.

"What the hell?" he asked. "My hangover just died suddenly. If I didn't know better, I'd swear your touching me on the shoulder made me better."

"We have friends in high places," Camilla said. "Comes from our Catholic faith, you know." The girls sat down with him.

"Whatever," he said. "What happened last night? These parties of ours just get wilder and wilder, and more and more surreal. Was it all a dream, or was it real? I can't tell."

"We were all really high, Mr. Mennon," Candice said. "You could have been hallucinating."

"Could be," he said. "Was Carrie here? She sure seemed to be."

"No," Camilla said. "You must have been hallucinating, or dreaming."

"What I remember of what happened," he said, "I sure hope it was all a dream."

I wish it had been all a dream, Camilla thought.


It was a rainy afternoon, Candice had unhappily gone back to her apartment, and Camilla sat in her bedroom, depressed by the weather she saw out her window, and troubled by what she'd almost done with her father the night before. To take her mind off her worries, she got out her lap-top and got on Facebook, eager to know what Marcel thought of her porn website. She sure found out.

She and Marcel were instant messaging each other. She was as wet as he was hard.

"Do my pictures please you, Marcel?" she typed.

"Oh, sweetie: I'm enjoying some of them right now," he typed. "Your body is even more beautiful than I could have imagined."

She typed, "LOL". Naked, she was masturbating on her bed.

"Are you on camillacome.com now?"

"Yes," she typed. "What are your favourite categories?"

"'Ass', 'Public', and 'Peeing' for your pictures. I've seen and love all the videos, except for the BDSM ones: I can't bear to see you getting hurt. POV is so wonderful--I can fantasize that I'm making love with you, sweetheart." At his chair, he was masturbating, too.


"I didn't reply to you until now because I wanted to see absolutely everything first," he typed. "I wanted to know your lovely body as well as you do: now I know it thoroughly."

"LOL. Name your favourite gallery so I can see what you enjoyed seeing." Her pussy was soaking from her fingering.

"In the 'Ass' category, there's a gallery called, 'Wicked Weekend'. Click on that one; I'm looking at it now."

"OK, just a minute. I have only one free hand. You know what my other hand's doing."

"My 'other hand' is doing the same thing, sweetie."

"LOL," she typed. "I'm on it: 'Wicked Weekend'. Which are your favourite pictures?"

15.jpeg, 17.jpeg, and 18.jpeg."

She looked at all three pictures, and giggled in excitement at what she saw: pictures of her by a backyard swimming pool on the grass. In the first, she was standing and bent over; in the second, she was on all fours; and in the third, she was kneeling while spreading her buttocks wide open with her hands--all three pictures showcased her pink pussy and pretty brown anus. "Marcel, do you want to put your thing in my bum?" she typed.

"Yes," he typed. "Also, my lips and tongue."

"You want to put them in my pussy too, though, right?"

"Of course, as well as in your pretty mouth, and my manhood between your titanic tits."


"I worship every inch of you," he typed.

"What's your favourite POV video?"

"It's in the 'Peeing' category; there's one called 'When You Gotta Go, Go on Me.'"

"LOL," she typed, then clicked on the video. When clicking PLAY, you see naked Camilla squatting over 'you', looking sensually into 'your' eyes, and pissing all over 'your' chest and neck. "You' look down and see the line of golden juice spraying out from her urethra, and her hand has her pussy spread wide open so 'you' can see everything. When she's finishing, she squirts a few more short splashes out, making a high-pitched yelp with each squirt. 'You' say thank you to her, get some toilet paper, and wipe her pussy dry. Then she thanks you. THE END.

"So, you want me to give you a golden shower?" she typed.

"Oh, yes, my goddess," he typed.


"Are you still touching yourself?"

"Oh, yes, my god: I'm almost there; please type something sexy."

"I'd love to make you lactate when sucking on your creamy breasts," he typed. "I'm sure your milk is the sweetest. Then I'd lick your pretty vulva till you came, and lick away all the sweet nectar there, for your whole body is candy."

A brief pause, then she typed, "Oh, my God! I came: thank you, Marcel."

"My pleasure."

"Have you come yet?"

"Almost: say something sexy, my goddess."

"I want you to shoot your come all over my face; then I'll wipe it off with my fingers and suck them dry, as I wish I was doing to your big cock right now."

Another brief pause. "I came. Merci."

"De rien. Let's do cyber-sex again...soon."


That night, Camilla had come home from Club Ritz early, since it was another disappointingly slow night and she lacked a lover. At the same time, she was almost glad she didn't have a new lover, for she was worried about whether Nigrovum was a blessing or a curse. Why hadn't Dr. Davis or Mr. Holland shown up? She'd sent out psychic signals for them to come, and that usually worked, but not this time. She didn't send out any for Father Josiah, for she was feeling a little guilty about fucking him. Indeed, guilt was the dominant mood of that whole night for her.

So guilty did she feel that not only did she set up particularly strong psychic barriers to protect all of her living lovers, as well as Agape and Davis' wife, but she also did something she hadn't done since just after her escape from that Satanic mansion by Grouse Mountain, in the Vancouver area: she prayed for spiritual help.

God, she prayed, though I doubt so much of what the Church teaches about You, I do believe in You, and I need Your help. I'm so confused. I don't want to hurt anybody, but I know I have. People have died because of me. I don't want that to happen anymore. I believe You gave me this power: please help me to use it well. All I want to do is please people, to make them feel good. If You don't help everybody I fuck, at least help those I care about the most: take care of Candice--make her give up the drugs; don't let Mrs. Holland's ghost hurt Miles; keep Davis and his wife together, even though I fuck him sometimes; help Father Josiah to stay a good Christian, in spite of how I tempt him; help Dr. Singh to understand Nigrovum better; and most of all, keep my Daddy well. He's such a beautiful man...all of him. Save me from myself, God: don't let me commit incest with my Dad! O, God, I think I'm going crazy. Don't let Nigrovum drive me mad the way it did Mr. Baker and Leroy. Please help me. [Doing the Sign of the Cross] In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen.


At last, her first day of university had come! She woke up on Tuesday morning after having had a most pleasant sleep: this encouraged her to think that God was really going to help her. Indeed, there were no disturbances from any incubi the night before, and she'd had delightful dreams about loving her father in a purely innocent way.

This encouragement made it feel safe for her to be slutty again, so she decided to put on a school-girl kind of outfit: a white blouse, plaid miniskirt, black shoes, and white socks. Though there was no uniform she needed to wear, she knew many men thought her dressing like that would look sexy, and she always wanted to please the men she liked...teachers!

She briskly walked along the York campus that morning, eager to get to her first class, a Comparative Literature course--Introduction to Erotic Literature. She hurried into the classroom, and sat at the front row of desks, next to a handsome, black-haired man in his early fifties. He had streaks of grey hair that gave him an aura of sophistication: though she certainly liked that, she hoped her professor would have exponentially more of such a sexy aura. Her mature classmate was certainly delighted to have such a pretty girl sit next to him; she had no problem encouraging his lust, but was hoping her prof be even worthier of having his lust encouraged.

He came into the classroom, and she wasn't disappointed with what she saw. The professor was in his late forties, a good-looking brunet who also had some distinguished grey mixed in. He wore a navy blue suit and tie, a choice of clothes that gave Camilla a pleasant reminder of how Dr. Davis dressed. The professor got up to the podium and began speaking to all the students.

"Good morning, everyone. I am Dr. Lawson; this will be our first lecture on erotic literature."

"My God," she said, her heartbeat already accelerating. "He's a doctor?"

"Of course," the man next to her said. "All university teachers are called doctor. Professors have PhDs: Doctors of Philosophy."

"That is so hot," she said, being all the more reminded of her sexy, life-saving Dr. Davis. (Her mature classmate, who was working on a doctor's thesis of his own, was as excited to know she was turned on by PhDs as she was to know her prof had one.) Camilla put her right hand up her mini-skirt and tickled the area of her white panties where her clitoris was.

"I'm Brad," the man beside her said, reaching out his hand to shake hers.

"Camilla," she said, never taking her eyes off Dr. Lawson and shaking Brad's hand with her left hand.

"Nice to meet you," he said; then, curious to know why she hadn't used her right hand to shake hands with him, he looked down and saw what her right hand was actually doing. She didn't notice his curious eyes, because she found Dr. Lawson's infinitely sexier. Brad didn't mind, though: he just watched her hand go to work.

"There is a crucial difference between erotica and pornography," Dr. Lawson continued. "Put simply, erotica is sexually stimulating work with artistic aspirations; porn, however, is just quick thrills. There is, of course, a lot of grey area between the two, and differing opinions exist as to which writing is more the one and which writing is more the other. If, however, on reading the books assigned in this course, you were hoping merely to satisfy your lower appetites, you may be disappointed. The writing is titillating, to be sure, but it's also real literature. These are artistically valid stories and poems, with fully-developed characters, themes, and symbolism, just as in 'cleaner' literature."

"He's brilliant," she panted. "What a mind." Her panties were soaking, and Brad was drooling.

"You will find much satire and social commentary as you read, not just lots of sex," Lawson continued. "When we come to the writings of the Marquis de Sade, for example, you will find pages of writing devoted to Sade's exposition of his philosophy of amorality and anti-religion before you finally get to a scene with Justine being tied up and whipped; however, a cheap porno novel is just a chain of sex scenes to satisfy prurient interests. Similarly, in erotica in film, Last Tango in Paris has a fully-realized story, with considerable lengths of time devoted to the plot before finally getting to a sex scene; on the other hand, in a pornographic movie, considerable lengths of time are devoted to explicit, non-simulated sex, before getting to any kind of a plot, if one was ever even intended. In erotic art, a painting like Goya's Naked Maja is stimulating to look at, but it's also to be appreciated aesthetically; pornographic pictures, on the other hand...well, few people are interested in the photographer's manipulations of light and shade, are they? The writing in this course is like these former examples, not like the latter ones. So those philistines among you now, who just want hot writing to help you masturbate, you may want to drop this course."

"I'll show you...I'm better than...the horny ones," she sighed, her hand now inside her panties and her index finger massaging her G-spot.

Brad seemed totally unaware that a professor was even in the room.

"We will read translations from among the works of Sappho, Catullus, and Ovid," Lawson went on. "Also, there will be such poems as 'The Flea', and 'Elegy XIX: To His Mistress Going to Bed', by John Donne. As I mentioned before, we'll read Justine, by Sade; we'll also read Fanny Hill, by John Cleland, Les Bijoux Indiscrets, by Denis Diderot, and Venus In Furs, by Leopold von Sacher-Masoch. Remember, people, this is a serious course, not mere fun."

"It'll be...both for..me. Oh!" she sighed as quietly as she could, then came in her panties.

"It'll be seriously fun for me, too," Brad whispered in her ear.

She got out a small plastic bag from her purse and gave it to Brad. "Can you hold this under my legs for me, please?" she asked him. "I need you to help me clean up my mess." She giggled lewdly.

"Gladly," he said, holding the bag just under where her come was dripping from off her panties.

She slowly and carefully pulled off her panties, kicking off her shoes to make it easier to get her feet through the leg-holes. Satisfied that she'd gotten only a minimum of come on her socks, she cupped the drenched panties in her hands and, careful not to let any of the other students see what she was doing, gave the panties to Brad. He surreptitiously put them in his briefcase, not at all caring about the mess they were making there. She also secretly gave him the plastic bag, which was half-full of her come. Again, he gladly risked augmenting the mess in his briefcase by putting the bag in there.

Soon after that, the class was over, and she walked out of the classroom, followed closely behind by Brad.

"So, you like profs, eh?" he asked her.

"Oh, yeah," she said. "Smart is the new sexy."

"You don't say," he said. "You know, I'm working on my PhD. I should have it by next year."

"Good," she said with a half-interested smile. "When you have it, and when you're teaching, let me know, and maybe we'll get together. In the meantime, enjoy my panties and bag of come. Bye." She then walked away, enjoying the breeze as it caressed her uncovered vulva, and eager to find her next classroom.


That night, after looking out the window and seeing rain showering down all over the neighbourhood, Camilla got into bed, set up the psychic barriers, and sent out a Nigrovum signal: a beam of light aimed at the hearts of all those she cared for, wishing good health to all of them. "See, Father Josiah?" she said to herself. "I am using Nigrovum for good. Pleasant dreams, everyone."


Meanwhile, lonely Candice sat in her room, falling asleep after taking some downers she'd gotten from her dope connection earlier that night at Club Ritz. She'd needed them after so many hours high on cocaine that evening, stripping without Camilla there.


Regretting her choice of an Introduction to Philosophy course her father had recommended, Camilla switched it for an Introduction to World Mythologies course, taught by Alex, the man she'd fucked in Queen's Park. She'd made the switch just in time to buy the textbook and sit in for the first lecture on Wednesday afternoon.

She sat at the front of the class, eagerly waiting to see sexy Alex. When he arrived and came to the front of the classroom, he almost tripped at the podium on seeing her there. Her lewd smiling at him did nothing for his now jolted nerves, of course.

Seeing how obviously fearful he was of his 'rapist/rape victim', she used Nigrovum to calm him: she visualized cool water being poured over his flaming heart. Surprised at how relaxed he'd suddenly become, he began his lecture.

"Welcome, everyone, to 'Introduction to World Mythologies'. I am Dr. McVie."

"Doctor," she whispered, looking at him and licking her lips.

After a few seconds of nervous hesitation, he continued. "We'll start today b-by looking at, and comparing, creation myths from around the world. Creation myths are generally symbolic, allegorical narratives. There are creations ex nihilo, as we have in the orthodox Christian interpretation of the Bible. Ex nihilo is Latin for 'out of nothing', the creation coming out of a god's words, as in the first chapter of Genesis. Sometimes, the creation comes from a god's bodily secretions."

"He knows Latin," she whispered as she began touching herself again. My high school teachers were nothing compared to the smart sexiness of professors, she thought; Dr. McVie can have my bodily secretions anytime.

"An example of creation from bodily secretions is in Egyptian myth, when the god Atun created the gods Shu and Tefnut by sneezing, or ejaculating after an act of masturbation," Alex said.

"I, a goddess, can relate...to that," Camilla said, still fingering her clitoris.

"Other myths of creation include those out of primordial, formless chaos," he went on. "There are also world parent myths, involving either the splitting up of an androgynous universe into a sky-father god and an earth-mother goddess, or the dismembering of a god, and making his body parts become the sky, clouds, stars, sun, earth, and sea. Other creation myths involve emergence from another world, like a baby coming out of its mother's womb; or perhaps we can have the 'earth diver' myth--a god wants an animal to go into the infinite cosmic ocean, find some sand or mud, and use it to make habitable land. Other myths, for example both Greek and Hindu, involve a cosmic egg."

"A microscopic black egg, by chance?" Camilla whispered.

"In the Manu Smrti, among the Hindu scriptures, we read that, 'that seed became a golden egg'. Inside the egg was Brahma, the creator god. An Orphic Greek myth tells us that Eros, or desire, was hatched out of a silver egg laid by Night, a goddess even Zeus was i-in awe of." Remembering Camilla, he was getting a little nervous again.

I lay little black eggs, and I'm a goddess, she thought as she eyed her teacher lasciviously; Is that close enough for you, my awed Zeus? Her finger was now deep inside her wet cunt.

"When we speak of primordial chaos, we don't mean riotous disorder; we mean the formless void from which all things come, even the gods," Alex said. "This void isn't mere nothingness: it's paradoxically nothing and everything, for it defies categorization--it's ineffable. If you like, you can consider it the Nirvana of the Buddhists; in Hinduism, it is Brahman, the pantheistic ground of all being. In the Rg Veda 10:129, we read that there was neither non-existent nor existent then, a perfect description of Brahman. 'Desire rose in the beginning, desire, the primal seed...'

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