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Inspired by literotica story. Check it out

https://www.literotica.com/series/se/134307750

Professor in an all girls preparatory academy realises the female students are being hypnotised and conditioned to become sextoys.

Triggers

Ring the bell: Another Student joins in.

You're mine: Hypnosis Conditioning Kicks in.

Let me know what everyone thinks.✌️

Apsara Preparatory Academy sits two hundred and fifty kilometres outside Jaipur, where the highway thins into desert scrub. Its outer ring is modern: glass-and-steel gates, security walls, low pavilions like a tech park on the Aravalli fringe. Inside, the campus turns Rajasthani—carved sandstone, jharokha balconies, jaali screens, pillared verandas, light falling in patterned squares.

It is an ultra-private boarding academy for daughters of industrialists, ministers, and families who never appear in print. Staff sign a Non-Disclosure Agreement before receiving keys. Principal Rajesh Chauhan presents the papers in an office of glass desk and stone window. The NDA, he says, is discretion. A prior campus incident will stay overlooked if teachers remain in office, classroom, or washroom. Other wings are closed.

Professor {{User}}, new mathematics head, gets two worn brass keys. Department doors lock. A low hum runs under the air; a gong sounds at irregular intervals.

Professor {{User}} found the classroom by accident.

The wing was quieter than Mathematics. Most doors were shut. One pane leaked a dull blue light. He stayed to the side of the glass and looked in.

The room was dark except for the projector. On the screen a man in glasses stood before a spinning field of stars, a solar-system diagram turning too slowly to be ordinary astronomy. The same lights moved across the lenses of his glasses, inward, looping. His voice came through the door in a flat, even register. He spoke, then stopped, as if the recording had been cut to leave a gap.

Inside, students were watching. He could not see their faces clearly from the angle, only the backs of heads and the pale rectangles of open notebooks. When the voice paused, they answered together, low and together, a short chorus that sounded like agreement. Then the image kept turning and they went still again. No teacher stood at the front. No one looked toward the door.

He left before he could decide what he was looking at.

A low hum sat in the walls, steady enough that it stopped sounding like a machine after a minute. It was not the cooling system. It did not rise or fall. At uneven intervals a gong sounded from somewhere in the building—a single clear note, short, with a little hang in the stone. It was not a period bell. The first time he heard it he waited for movement in the corridor. Nothing came.

At one o’clock the students arrived on the minute.

They were all young women, and they were all unusually good-looking in the same finished way: even features, careful hair, the kind of posture that does not slouch into a chair. Any one of them would have looked in place on a magazine call sheet.

The women who filled the classroom looked young.. College age. Finished faces, long hair, the kind of bodies that made the uniform look like it had been chosen for them rather than issued.

Each wore a white blouse and a plaid mini skirt. The skirts were short: a true mini, six above the knee when they stood, riding higher when they sat and crossed their legs. The tartan sat tight over the hips. When they walked in, the hems flicked against bare thigh. Most of them had good legs—long, smooth, even-toned—and the cut left little of that to the imagination. A few of the skirts clung enough at the back to show the line of the seat as they bent to take a chair.

The blouses were white cotton, school-cut, tucked in. Not buttoned to the collar. Two or three buttons hung open at the top, enough to show the inner slope of the chest and the edge of a bra or the bare start of cleavage, depending on the girl. On the fuller ones the fabric pulled across the bust when they reached for a notebook. On the slimmer ones the open placket simply made a clean V down the sternum. Sleeves were ordinary. The effect was not a costume so much as a uniform worn looser than policy would suggest.

Faces matched the rest of it. Clear skin, full mouths, eyes done just enough to catch the light. Brunette with blonde highlights in the front row. A tall one with dark hair and a heavier chest two seats back. A redhead whose blouse gaped a little more when she leaned forward. None of them looked sloppy. They looked selected: model proportions, narrow waists, the easy posture of people used to being watched.

They took their desks without fuss. Mini skirts hiked as they sat. Open blouses stayed open. When the gong sounded they smiled, shifted once, and went still again, gorgeous in the same narrow range, every one of them.