The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Tracy unpacks her sack lunch and sits down to eat, her stomach gurgling. Four hours and thirty minutes of going without so much as a snack has left her with a craving for more than candy bars and Coke. She tears into her PB and J ravenously, savoring the familiar interplay of starch and creamy spread she’s come to enjoy since kindergarten. She chases it down with bottled water, wiping the excess with the sleeve of her shirt.

It’s not thirty seconds before she’s joined by one girl and then another, excusing themselves from Colleen’s table to join the New Best Friend several rows ahead. Colleen narrows her eyes and stares, barely concealing the hatred simmering underneath. Tracy shrugs. Colleen sucks in a string of spaghetti and pretends to ignore her.

Tracy makes small talk with Colleen’s friends, a skinny girl with dirty blonde hair and a raven haired student who looks like sixteen going on twenty five. She glances occasionally at her untouched food, as if to say, excuse me, I’m eating. They take the hint and join her, conversing in between bits of salad and fruit and whatever else they’ve happened to bring with them. The atmosphere is reminiscent of sorority house or a teacher’s lounge than a adolescent cliché, Tracy no more of a ‘queen bee’ than anyone else.

Yet much has changed in the intervening days. Tracy’s up, Colleen’s down, and the entire political calculus of the school has been thrown asunder. No longer is she the lonely girl sitting by herself. For the first time in her life she has friends, superficial ones, to be sure, but friends all the same.

That pisses Colleen off.

As she watches her friends gab, a feeling of rage swells in her. How dare they betray her! Don’t they know where their real loyalties lie!

Before, Tracy was nothing, just another ugly duckling Colleen didn’t have to concern herself with, and in the space of a few days she’s not only challenging the cheerleader’s authority, she’s undermining it. Something’s definitely rotten in the school, and it isn’t the mystery meat.

Colleen grimaces, her stomach turning with disgust. She can barely look at her own food. Her cell phone vibrates. She picks it up, seething with anger.

“Who is it!?” She barks in an audible voice.

“Hey, it’s me, uh, Hank.”

Her boyfriend’s voice is different. Not exactly monotone—it’s always been kind of flat—but it sounds downright sleepy, robotic. Colleen screws up her face. Is this really the man she’s known for so long?

“You sound different, baby.” She murmurs.

“I’m fine.”

“What’s wrong, bad day?”

“No.” Hank is short and clipped. “Look, I’m not going to be able to make it this evening. I’ve got, ah, plans.”

“What kind of plans?”

“I just feel like staying in tonight, that’s all.”

“But we can stay in together, if you know what I mean.”

Colleen giggles.

“I want to be alone, Colleen.” Hank’s voice grows cold. “Is that hard to understand?”

“I see.”

Click.

Colleen hangs up, suddenly aware of the heads turning her way. She glares at Tracy, her eyes brimming with fire and judgment.

Bitch.

Tracy sits on the couch, peeking through rain soaked windows at the trees swaying outside. She knew there would be a late drizzle, but not any drenching. She should’ve realized it was going to be a real gully washer this evening. Oh well. C’est la vie.

She glances at the clock on the mantle. He should be here any minute. She runs her hands over her white dress, smoothing out the wrinkles, cleanliness being next to godliness and all. A pang of self-consciousness hits her as she wonders whether she should’ve worn something more casual for a first date. It doesn’t matter. Once he walks through the door they’ll be no turning back.

Thank God her parents are on a date of their own tonight. Wouldn’t want them to witness the eventual failure that is her first time out with a boy since the first eighth grade, would she?

Her throat grows lumpy. Thirst or is it something else? Her mind races with questions. Suppose he doesn’t like the dress? Suppose he spies a pimple on her face or something and turns away? Suppose, suppose, suppose...

The growl of a car engine jolts her from her what ifs. Is it him or is she just imagining it? The waiting gnaws at Tracy, reminding her of the times spent on the track, waiting for her turn to grab the baton and run. This feels worse somehow. At once she wishes she wishes she could fade into the carpeting and never come out.

She startles at the rapping at the door.

“It’s unlocked.” She calls out.

It dawns on her that maybe Hank—or whoever is at the door—hasn’t heard her. She walks toward it with a mix of apprehension and fear. Suppose it’s not Hank? Suppose it’s some crazy serial killer who wants to rape and dismember her?

She heaves in relief at the sight of Hank’s frame. No serial killers, yet.

“Thank God it’s you!”

Hank doesn’t notice the excitement in her voice, interested only in her sparkling emerald eyes.

“Did you have any trouble making it?”

“Making what?”

“Over here, silly!”

“Huh?”

Tracy palms her face, realizing she should have been more specific.

“Did you make the reservations at Charlie’s?”

He nods.

“Where’s the car?”

He points toward the driveway.

“Do you need to go to the bathroom or anything?” She asks. “It’s halfway across town.”

He shakes his head.

“You know you can say yes or no. I’m not your mother, you know.”

“No, I do not have to go to the bathroom.”

“Go stand by the car. I’ll lock the house and join you shortly. Don’t do anything until I arrive.”

Tracy sighs. If she knew she’d have to give orders, she would’ve stayed ugly. The rain stops, a rare stay from the evening’s torrent.

As she walks toward the black Pontiac Trans AM, Tracy notices Hank gazing absentmindedly at her, oblivious to her except for the pounding of high heels.

“Hank, aren’t you forgetting something?”

He continues to stare at her.

“Open the door. Not the driver’s, the other one! I didn’t mean the back! Okay, I’ll do it myself...”

Not exactly the start of a perfect date, but Tracy puts on a happy face. As the car whizzes through the city’s busy streets, she wonders whether Hank is in a de facto state of autopilot, guiding it yet not actually ‘there’.

She stares straight ahead, one eye on the road while the other’s on him. The only thing separating him from the crack heads in jail is at least he made it to her house alive and in one piece. Miraculously, the car pulls into Charlie’s parking lot without incident. Tracy exhales as she glances at the giant yellow letters above the restaurant, bright enough to be seen for at least a mile.

“Hank, would you be a darling and escort me inside, please?”

On this note, the football player follows through without fail. Despite the bevy of customers, the wait for a table isn’t as terrible as Tracy feared. She laughs it off even, helped in no small part by the glass of Merlot by her side. She doesn’t even remember the trouble getting there, the mess with the car, how she had to bark at Hank to open the passenger door so she could climb in.

“So Hank, I’ve noticed you like to read. Anything in particular strike your fancy?”

“Poems.” His voice is deadpan.

“What kind of poems?”

“Old ones.” He wipes his mouth.

“Can you recite a few lines for me?”

“Today the road all runners come/shoulder high we bring you home/and set you down at threshold down/townsmen of a stiller town.”

“What about something more romantic?”

Hank clears his throat.

“For ever panting and for ever young/all breathing passion far above/that leaves a heart high sorrowful and cloyed/a burning forehead, and a parching tongue.”

“Does your girlfriend know you read stuff like that?”

“Girlfriend? What girlfriend?”

Oh, right.

“Colleen, the blonde.”

“No.”

Tracy grins. This is going to be more fun than she thought.

As the night winds down, they leave, Tracy feeling flushed and happier than ever. As the evening comes to a close, the gully washer returns, soaking them both. She blushes, embarrassed to see her nipples peeking out through her drenched clothes. Without skipping a beat, she kisses him, guiding his hand to her chest.

Hank’s eyes bulge. Even with her spell, he’s still himself underneath. “Be a good boy, and there’s more where this comes from.”

The drive back is nice and quiet, Hank taking his time. Tracy reclines, enjoying every minute. As he drops her off, she stumbles back into the house, intoxicated by alcohol and a factory of pheromones pumping inside her. She collapses on the couch, a smile on her face.