Class Trance

Setting the Stage

They’ve broken me, they’ve pushed me to this. Just a few years ago they were such lovely foals. Maybe a bit rambunctious, speaking out of turn, not doing the work I set them, but they were manageable. If I yelled at them once they’d put their head down and get to work.

Now? Now if I yell, they yell right back. If I send them out of the classroom, I’d be lucky to open the door and find them still standing there. Halfway through the semester and I’ve not even squeezed a week out of the syllabus.

‘Stop that, Rumble!’ He’s punching Pipsqueak on the shoulder. I know what comes next. ‘Don’t even think about it, Pipsqueak!’ His primed hoof hangs.

‘But he hit me!’ Oh, don’t act like justification means a damn thing to you.

‘I don’t care!’ And he punches him. Celestia!

Rumble and Pipsqueak, puberty may have set in late, but the testosterone must have built behind a dam, bursting one summer break to turn the sweetest colts a teacher could wish for into punch-happy lads. Every lunch time I have to step between them so one of them doesn’t end up in the hospital. Sometimes not even that’s enough to stop them. Oh, and the things I hear walking past the boys’ changing room! That room has concrete walls and I can still hear their bilge knock right through them. How loudly they must fire those arseholes they call mouths I’ve trouble imagining.

Diamond Tiara’s whispering into Twist’s ear. I can’t hear myself think! How’s her whisper breaking through the din? From the tears in Twist’s eyes I'll wager Diamond said something like, ‘I feel so terrible saying this, but I think you have the right to know. I saw your coltfriend kissing [insert filly who’s “wronged” Diamond in the past week]. I'm so sorry.’

Terrible though bullying always is, some bullies grow out of it. At some point they'll stop making life Tartarus for their fellow ponies, either because they've grown a conscience, or just gotten bored. Not Diamond. Where others become bored, she becomes crafty. Her bullying skirts the abuse laws, never doing anything physical or too verbally direct. She organises events so others will unwittingly bloody their hooves for her. On those rare occasions when she stumbles over into criminality, her father’s clout nudges her right back onto the side of legality.

Oh, her father! He’s no help. It seems once in a decade his ‘schedule is free’ enough to talk to the little ponies, like the teacher of his own foal. In response to my ‘mere allegations’ as to the behaviour of his daughter he said, ‘She’s done nothing serious unless she’s broken a law, and she’s only broken the law when a court of law deems she has.’ Well thanks a bucking lot, Mr Filthy Rich!

Until recently I would have tarred Silver Spoon with Diamond’s brush, but in my years observing them I've realised Silver has the heart of a decent pony. Years ago she would, at Diamond’s leading, mock her classmates with glee. Now she would only do so at Diamond’s direct and repeated urging. Standing always behind Diamond she releases unguarded expression of empathetic pain for her ‘friend’s’ victims. Between that moment when Diamond canters away from her prey, and the time when Silver is compelled to follow her, Silver will offer as many comforting words to the crying foal as a few seconds allow. Silver isn't a bad pony; she’s a weak one.

‘Scootaloo,’ I say, moving on, ‘Is your project ready?’ A scowl already seizes my face because I know her answer.

‘Huh,’ she grunts through a mouthful of that sandwich she thought I didn’t see her eating. She swallows. ‘What project?’

‘The history project I set five weeks ago, the one that was due last week.’

‘Oh, yeah.’ She rubs the back of her neck . ‘Forgot.’ Forgot, forgot, forgot! Every day I remind her, every day she says she ‘forgot’.

‘You need to get that in, Scootaloo. It goes towards your final mark.’

‘Yeah, yeah, I'll get it in.’

Admittedly her vice isn’t as damaging as some of my students’ – No! No, that’s what’s wrong with my class. I shouldn't be able to call Scootaloo a ‘comparatively’ good student. If I had a halfway decent, or even regular, class, Scootaloo would be my worst student.

I return to the front of the class, resigned to the fact they've not proceeded at all on the work I gave them. ‘Class! Class! We need to get through fifty pages on Celestia’s rise to power soon. We’re already-’

‘Ms!’ Speaking of ‘comparatively’ good students. ‘How much are we lagging on the course?’

Though perhaps the tamest nuisance of the lot, Apple Bloom still irritates me the most. If this class is the manure patch I’ve tripped into, then Apple Bloom is the fly buzzing around my head. Recently she acquired the habit of interrupting me. She has the uncanny ability, dare I say skill, of only asking questions that my very next sentence could have answered.

‘As I was about to say, Apple Bloom, we are five weeks behind. We nee-’ And of course the bell rings.

Before that ten second banshee can finish, most of the class stampes out for lunch. Only Diamond, Silver and Twist remain. Diamond because she’d never lower herself to the panicked exertions of ‘the great unwashed,’ and Silver because Diamond would never lower herself to the panicked exertions of ‘the great unwashed.’ They depart eventually, with the high-chinned calm of those who know they will never have to contend with a cafeteria line, because their chefs have left a fifty bit meal in their lunchboxes.

Her tormentors gone, Twist approaches me, wiping the remaining tears from her eyes. ‘I don’t think I can go through with our lunchtime study session.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I sigh. ‘I'm too tired to be much help to you anyway.’

She either thanks me or apologises under breath as she leaves.

Staring at the ceiling, at the sterile white lights, hearing the groan of the air conditioner struggling against Celestia’s best, I lament, ‘This is my life.’

What does it matter they’re ‘legally’ adults, they’re still the biggest bunch of foals I’ve ever taught. I'm a teacher, I'm their stepping stone between foalhood and the adult world. But they don’t listen to me. They don’t respect me. They don’t even want to learn.

Oh, that’s not entirely true. Twist, Sweetie Belle and even Silver Spoon try to learn, but this class won’t let them. I can only get through so much in after class lessons.

I smile for perhaps the first time this school year.

‘This was my life up to now,’ I muse.

I have a plan, maybe an unethical one, but a necessary one. Doubt bubbles to mind. I’ll have to drag Twist, Sweetie Belle and Silver Spoon into this. No matter, some sacrifices are acceptable. I’ve already invested too much in preparation for this day to back away now. Besides, they’re already well-behaved fillies. I’d just be bringing the class up to their level.

Mmmm, the thought of a well-behaved class makes me spin in my chair. No yelling, no violence, just learning. A few weeks ago it seemed a dream, Celestia, it seems a dream even now.

Over the winter break I came across a book in the town library, How to Hypnotise Anyone at Any Time. ‘What nonsense,’ I thought, ‘Just trash aimed at gullible and horny schoolcolts.’ But then memories of my class flashed before me, and my thoughts of ‘What nonsense’ became ‘What if?’ So I borrowed the book (self-checkout, of course). In a single night I read it cover to cover. As I tried to sleep wicked imaginings already bloomed in my fertilised mind.

‘I’m probably getting ahead of myself,’ I thought, ‘There’s no way it could work in the way I intend.’ Where most would mark that thought as the end of an endeavour, I viewed it as the impetus to start experimenting.

Before I tried it on my class, I must confirm it works. More than that, I must confirm I could accomplish it, first on a willing participant, then an unwilling one, then two unwilling, and so on. If it didn’t work I could banish the whole enterprise with no large embarrassment or scandal.

Lyra would be my first guinea pig. If I couldn’t hypnotise a willing subject, what’s more, one I’d built trust with over many years, then how could I possibly put under a class who don’t even respect my position.

Bon Bon was away at her parents for a week, so she couldn’t interfere. I told Lyra what I would do. ‘It will be fun,’ I said. She agreed without much persuasion. I followed the script and soon she melted into her couch. I tested her suggestibility by making her say something she would never even think in sober mind.

‘Bon Bon is a cum-guzzling whore,’ she said clearly.

I made her forget the session, telling her that we’d just had a cup of tea that afternoon. The next day I hypnotised her unwillingly.

Serving green tea while playing lulling instrumentals, in a room with a heater turned to ‘cozy,’ I began to comment on how tired exam marking had made me. 'As I finished my twentieth, twenty-first, twenty-second, twenty-third paper I’d just feel my eyes droop, each paper, twenty-fourth, twenty-fifth, twenty-sixth, my eyes would droop just a little lower, twenty-seventh, twenty-eighth, twenty-ninth, until they’d just close, closed so tight I couldn't open them.'

Her cup tipped, then fell from her hoof, staining the carpet with tea. Luckily this didn’t rouse her.

I gave her the test phrase, which she repeated. ‘It’s so warm in here,’ I told her. ‘So, so warm.’ She shifted in her seat. ‘It’s especially warm the more you move down your torso, the more you move up your legs. Especially warm between your thighs.’ She squirmed. ‘You’re all alone. No one can see or hear you.’ Uninhibited, she let a hoof crawl over her leg, to in between her slowly spreading thighs. With a sleepy, uncoordinated hoof she rubbed her exposed marehood, letting moans escape through her slackly parted lips. I watched her languorously bring herself to orgasm, for purely scientific reasons.

Of course I made her forget that session, but only after using her lavatory for… calming reasons.

While I would never call a result from a sample size of one proof, I had at least shown my goal was possible.

I had to try it on somepony I didn’t know. That would be a telling test.

I visited Quills and Sofas on a slow day (what day isn’t a slow day) to experiment on Davenport, the owner. I’d arrived late enough that I was sure any of his potential customers would have come earlier, but not too late that my presence would irritate him by the fact I kept him from closing up early.

In his eyes there was already the strain of a long day. All I needed do was tell him of the softness of my sofa and the drip, drip, drip of my quills before he dozed right behind the counter. I ordered him to take me to the back room to eliminate any chance of interruption.

In that hour I had him convinced the twig I picked up outside was a rare example of the Zebrican Master’s quillcraft. I could barely contain my chuckles as he scraped the ‘quill’ along the paper, praising its smoothness.

To test the limits of my control I commanded him to, in the style of the old spies, demonstrate to me the use of ‘every stallion’s personal stylo.’

He apologised for his delay in exhibiting this most ubiquitous inkpot of the world’s own design. For my benefit he raised himself onto his hind hooves so I could clearly see his growing stallionhood.

Drawing his hoof up and down his shaft, he stopped in his advertisement only to groan. As I watched his hoof pump up and down, I realised my head was bobbing along with his motions, entranced. I heard his groans grow longer and shorter apart, moaning so that my heart hammered. He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t be bothered speaking. Faster and faster, stronger and stronger, louder and louder, until –.

Awaking from my own spell I realised, blushing, that my hoof was massaging my marehood. ‘He’ll never tell,’ I thought, ‘There’d be no harm finishing off.’

As I left I commanded him to forget the whole incident after he’d cleaned up the mess he’d made.

Results: Hitherto unacquainted individual (stallion) could be surreptitiously brought under hypnosis. Trance deep enough that delusions and… socially unacceptable actions could be elicited.

A pony I knew, a pony I didn’t. Then I decided it was time for a multiple induction.

Next evening, as luck would have it, I found Applejack and Rainbow Dash in the middle of a conversation after a day’s work. Injecting myself into their conversation I found it all too simple to bring them under. Focus them on their hard day’s work and they couldn't stop their yawning. Tell the how tired you've been feeling and the can't stop their eyelids drooping. Tell them how much their legs ache and they can’t stop themselves agreeing the dirt is a nice, soft place to lie down. Then just tell them how sleepy they must feel and how much they deserve a nap and their minds melt under your words.

I guess the greatest reward most ponies truly want is a deep, relaxing sleep. So much that they’ll do anything to thank the pony who gave it to them.

I told Applejack she had never set foot on such a dirty thing as a farm. She was a prissy Canterlot secretary with a submissive streak who was in an affair with her boss.

Rainbow would pay no mind to flying, being, as she was, deskbound. The Wonderbolts vanished from the mind of this lecherous lawyer whose only pleasure now was eating her oh-so-proper secretary’s pussy.

They stood in Dashing Justice’s office, thirty floors above ground level. Weak Sherry adjusted the collar of her ultra-conservative dress.

‘Ma’am, we mustn’t, not here. What if a client comes in,’ Weak Sherry said, looking out over Canterlot, her back to her boss.

‘You know we have no clients.’ Dashing approached her, nuzzling her neck like a wolf deciding where to make the first bite.

‘But what if, mmm, somepony should kn-knock, ma’am.’

‘You know no one will.’ Dashing’s nuzzling grew stronger as she began nibbling along Sherry’s neck. Her secretary’s soft moans pushed her on. ‘Just take off that stuffy thing. You know what we both want.’

‘Oh, but, mmm, what if, a-hh-’ Dashing spun her around to tear apart her dress.

Dashing drew her hoof along Sherry’s exposed torso, brushing her teats, making her gasp. ‘This is what I want.’

‘But- But, it’s improper.’

‘No buts!’ She yelled, pulling off all that remained of her secretary’s dress, leaving her in only a pair of black, lace panties. ‘You pretend to fight me, but I see how wet you are. You act all proper because you love how it feels when I make you realise you’re just a hungry slut. Am I right?’ Her secretary nodded, her face a mixture of shame and lust.

Dashing pushed her to the ground. ‘Those panties were a gift from me to you. So they are mine, mine to do with as I please. So take them off, or I'll take them off for you.’

Sherry peeled off her soaked through panties and tossed them aside, closing her eyes and biting her lip in anticipation of what came next.

Dashing wasted no time teasing. She slobbered all over her yielding secretary’s pussy, licking up and down, in and out. Sherry bit her hoof to keep from screaming in ecstasy. But she couldn’t stop panting and moaning. She tried to hold out, but then Dashing flicked her tongue over her clit. Not even her hoof could stop her. She screamed, cuming all over Dashing’s face.

‘And SLEEP!’

It was an odd sight, certainly. Two mares snoozing in a secluded grove of the Apples’ farm, one of them using the other’s marehood as a pillow. In reality there was no office, dress or even panties.

Having pleasured myself in three out of three experiments, I accepted my interest exceeded scientific curiosity.

I left them with the memory that after weeks of jest, they finally decided to give it a try.

My other experiments were the much same, but writ larger and larger. For my last few I took a four day trip to a town a hundred miles outside Appleoosa, in the hope news of thirty pony orgy wouldn't stick to me.

And today it would all pay off. By now I could hypnotise anyone, willing or no, sceptic or no, one pony or, in this case, twenty-four. A few well-chosen words about the weather and I could conquer Equestria. Well, not quite, but I'm very good.

I'm not taking any chances, though. Fail here, all will have been for naught.

All my tricks are set up. I will lure them into trance aurally, visually and atmospherically.

Since term started I’ve taken to wearing clothes, garish ones at that, so that the sequin dress I'm wearing, which glints in the light just so, won’t seem amiss. I'm holding them in after class so I won’t be disturbed. On a thirty-three degree Friday I doubt any snooping teachers or students from other classes will linger long. Any janitor who sees me in here will just move along, leaving this room until last. Fabricating a reason to keep them in never concerned me. Their first period alone gave me twelve excuses before I stopped counting. None of them are getting out of this, nothing short of a medical emergency will allow them leave. I’ve threatened a conversation with their parents, and, if that doesn’t work (it rarely does), detention for the rest of the semester.

And just so the bloody bell doesn't shock them from trance, I’ve just padded the alarm so the metal against metal becomes metal against foam. Thankfully, the bells in the hall can barely be heard once I close the door.

Seeing the time, I scamper to turn the air conditioner off. Defences broken, Celestia’s hottest day of the year yet saturates the classroom. As the dress pastes to me I remember why I hate clothes.

The hallway bells’ muffled ringing barely reaches me as the bell just over my head stays silent.

My class trudges in, far slower than they had exited. Feeling the heat many of them groan.

‘Sorry, class,’ I say, ‘the air conditioner just broke down over lunch. We’re stuck with it for the rest of the day – AND!’ I say it loud enough that everyone would hear me, ‘for the time you’re all staying in.’

More groans.

‘You've only yourselves to blame.’

An hour and a half later, I must say, the class proceeded better than normally. Not well, but better. Though, I suppose the heat sapped their energy to much of anything, including misbehave. Early on some still did though.

As the hour and a half went on, though, even those stragglers fell into half-waking stupor. A few murmurs and mutters bubbled through the class, but other than that, silence.

I made sure to speak slow enough to lull the wakeful, yet loudly enough to rouse the too sleepy to a point just short of the brink of sleep. I read and lectured to them on something mathematical (not even I really cared today), asking no questions, setting no work. I didn’t want their minds turning at all.

I hear the dull rings of the school end bells patter at the door. Either I am the only one to hear it, or those foals that do hear feel it like a gentle nudge of a rocking chair, pushing them further out into drowsiness.

All of them are glassy-eyed, all sway gently in their chairs, too tired to speak, too tired to keep their lips together, but none of them are so tired that they've placed their heads on the desk to go off to sleep. Perfect.

‘Today, we will review psychology,' I start, speaking so slowly, so firmly. 'We will review sleep science.’

None have roused, none have slept.

‘An average adolescent needs nine hours sleep. Without nine hours sleep they become tired, sleepy and slow during the day. Most adolescents do not sleep for nine hours, therefore most adolescents become tired, sleepy and slow.’

Slowly, I begin pacing up and down in front of my desk. Sunlight gently glints from my sequins, making the foals blink.

‘They may think they are not tired, but very easily they realise just how sleepy they are. A light glints in their eyes. So they blink, then blink a little longer.’

Rumble’s eyes droop before closing, staying shut a good few seconds before opening. Light gets in his eyes, so he closes them just a little longer before opening.

‘Just a deep breath in…’ Half the class obeys. ‘And out… and their eyelids flutter as their body grows so heavy. They become so sleepy.’

Diamond’s eyes stare from narrow slits obscured by eyelashes. She blinks, and each time seems like the last.

‘They want to avoid sleep. But they are too tired. And it feels so good to give in to the sleepiness, to close their eyes a bit longer each time, to take a deep breath in…’ The whole class obeys. ‘And out…’

Scootaloo sags like a ragdoll on her chair. Her mouth lolls open. Her eyes open barely a second before closing for ten.

‘You just want to give into this sleepy feeling. It feels so good to close your eyes a little longer, so good to breathe in… and out… in… and out.’

There is something adorable about their clueless, dreamy faces. It would just be teasing to keep them up any longer.

'You need nine hours sleep. You have not had nine hours sleep, so you feel tired, sleepy and slow. It feels so good to give in to the sleepiness. You need nine hours sleep. So sleep. Close your eyes, all the way down. Lock them tight, so you can’t open them. Try to open, and realise you can’t… Realise you don’t want to open them, and stop trying. Just relax, and sleep, deep sleep.’

Scanning the room I can’t see a single open eye. They’re all limp, all sound asleep, deeply hypnotised. I could start here, but a suggestibility never hurts.

‘Put your front hooves on the desk.’ They all obey, some slower than others, but they all obey. ‘Lots of empty balloons are tied to your left hoof. Slowly they fill with helium, and the more they fill, the higher they rise, as they rise your hoof rises too. Feel the helium fill the balloons, feel them rise.’

Before long all their hooves rise above their heads, straight up. All but one.

Scootaloo’s hoof dangles in the air, caught between rise and fall.

I go over to her, squatting down by her desk. ‘Scootaloo, I want you to tell me, on a scale of one to ten, how deeply asleep you are. Ten being most deep, one being least deep.’

‘...Ssssix.’

‘Very good, Scootaloo. Now think of the pony you love and trust most in the whole world… Have you got them?’ She nods. ‘Who is it?’

‘Mu…mmy.’ I restrain a laugh. Even the brashest adolescent can be the biggest foal.

‘Feel your mummy hug you, Scootaloo. Notice how it makes you feel so warm inside, so relaxed, so safe. It's like you're a foal again. All your worries, you concerns, melt under this warm hug.’ A smile grows on her face. ‘Just relax into the hug, relax deeper into sleep, deeper and deeper… On a scale of one to ten, how deep are you now?

‘Ten.’

‘Very good, Scootaloo.’ I step back. Her hoof’s right above her head.

To the class I say, ‘The balloons slowly release helium. They slowly come down.’ I wait until all their hooves are rested again on the tables before continuing. ‘Very good, class, deeply asleep, listening only to my voice.’

Oh thank, Celestia!

I gallop as quietly as I can to the air conditioner, turning it to full power. Shedding my sequin dress I let the cold air tickle my sweat coated body. From my drawers I pull a water bottle and take one mouthful before pouring the rest over my body. After sitting long enough for the sweat to dry, and my heart to stop hammering, I turn the cooling down.

Looking at my work, more pride than I’ve ever felt in my teaching career overcomes me. Pretty sure that’s a bad a thing, but who cares, they’re the quietest they’ve ever been. And, best of all, helplessly obedient.

I walk to the front of the class, as if to start a lesson.

‘Sit up straight.’ They do! I’ve not felt this giddy since high school. ‘Say: “We’re sorry for being such a nuisance, Ms. Cheerilee.”’

All at once they chime, ‘We’re sorry for being such a nuisance, Ms. Cheerilee.’

I’ve made respectable women expose themselves to passing crowds, I’ve made grown men masturbate while screaming out nursery rhymes, I’ve made sheriffs blind to my literally stealing their moustache from under their nose, but this! This! is better than sex.

But I didn’t do this for the novelty, I aim to make some long term changes.

‘Open your eyes but remain deeply asleep.’ They obey. ‘Repeat what I say, and as you say it, realise it is absolute truth.

‘Good students obey their teachers.’

‘Good students obey their teacher.’

‘I love being a good student.’

‘I love being good student.’

‘Therefore, I love to obey Ms. Cheerilee.’

‘I hate to question Ms. Cheerilee’s decisions.’

'Because I know Ms. Cheerilee is always right.'

‘I love to obey Ms. Cheerilee’s commands.’

‘If Ms. Cheerilee tells me to do something I don’t agree with, I will still want to obey.’

‘I will still want to obey, because Ms. Cheerilee told me to do it, therefore there must be a reason.’

‘I love to obey my teacher, therefore I am a good student.’

‘I love being a good student.’

‘Because to be a good student I just need to obey Ms. Cheerilee.’

‘Obeying Ms. Cheerilee is easy.’

‘Obeying Ms. Cheerilee feels good, because she is always right, and doing what is right feels good.’

‘I choose to obey Ms. Cheerilee. I could disobey Ms. Cheerilee, but that would make me a bad student.’

‘I don’t want to be a bad student. I love being a good, obedient student.’

I phrased the statements, 'love to obey' and 'choose to obey' just as an experiment. Giving them the choice it will be interesting to see who can deny their new instincts.

‘Stop repeating. Very good, class. Now stand up.’ They obey instantly. ‘See, you can obey. See how good it feels to obey. Before today you were disobedient. What does that make your past selves?’

‘Bad students.’

‘Do you want to be bad students?’

‘No.’

‘Very good. Then it’s time to close that part of you away, because from now on you want to be good students.

‘Outside of class you will act as you did before, but inside class, when I’m teaching, you will be docile and attentive, because this will make you a good student. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Very good, my good students. Now sit down.’ They do.

Well, that’s the whole class, but now time for some one on one time.

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