The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Synapse

“No drugs this time,” Soma said. “No restraints.” I sighed with relief as the straps of my table were released. “And no sensory deprivation.” Soma pulled away the blindfold, and I squinted against the bright light. We weren’t in the warehouse anymore. I’d been moved. Now we were in what looked like an upscale penthouse apartment owned by some billionaire downtown.

“Where are we?” I asked, rubbing my wrists and then my eyes.

“No questions, either.” Soma stepped in front of me. She was in her classic biker outfit of leather pants and black bomber jacket. She still had no top on, and today she also had no bra, letting her jacket be the only thing that covered her. Her cobalt blue hair — our species resemblance, I guess — was in a high and tight ponytail, and her lips were colored a dark blue with what looked like glitter. She looked more regal and more alien than I’d seen her before, and my mouth went dry as my eyes roamed over the curves and lines of her body. She didn’t flinch under my gaze. I sensed her skin warm as she knew I was drinking her in, as she enjoyed my enjoyment of her.

“Today, you follow your instincts. I think you’re ready, but I’ll only know if I assess you.” Her blue lips smirked in amusement. “If I trust you.”

“Everything’s ready,” Gretchen said from behind me. She was still in her white lab coat with her curly strawberry-blonde hair in a disarray that almost looked intentional. She wore tight skinny jeans and a white button-up with a cobalt blue tie to match her Mistress.

“So, what’s the game today?” I asked.

“No game,” Soma said. “We’re going to let you out and see what you do.”

“Out out?”

Soma’s smirk returned. “Just this penthouse. You’re welcome to try to leave, but if you do, I’ll hunt you down and —”

“Kill me. Got it.”

“Continue your training.” Soma stepped closer to me. Chills ran over my body, but they weren’t from fear. Not exactly. “On our planet, we don’t waste anything. Especially one of our conquerors.”

“Oh, right.”

There was movement behind me, and Soma looked up at it. She walked away to deal with it, and Gretchen began taking my vitals. “Don’t worry,” she said to me with a smile. “You’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, ’cause ’pass this test or you go back to the deprivation chamber’ sounds like real low stakes to me.”

“Has your training been so unpleasurable?” Gretchen asked. I looked into her eyes, past her thick and circular glasses that seemed to take up half her face. She blushed and looked away from me.

Without thinking, I reached out with my power and tasted some of her embarrassment. No. That wasn’t the word. It was something like embarrassment and something like shame, but in Gretchen’s body it was arousal. Yes. I reached out to it without thinking, wanting to fan the flame into something larger and see what I could get her to do with a little —

The shields around her mind snapped into place, but not before Gretchen let out a little gasp and looked up at me with shock and surprise.

“Now, now,” Soma said as she approached me. “Only approved toys for playing.” She walked in front of me with two gorgeous redheaded women in scandalously short black dresses that showed plenty of cleavage and thigh. “Like these,” Soma said. She gestured to the two girls — no, twins — “allow me to introduce Krystal and Crystelle. Though the human convention of keeping twins dressed similarly and in matching clothes will never cease to astound me. Why wouldn’t you want to differentiate yourselves?”

One woman giggled and waved, while the other gave a polite wave. They weren’t nearly as nervous as they ought to be, though I assumed they were professionals like all the people Soma had brought in for my training. At first, I had assumed that implied some level of ethics on Soma’s part. But now I knew it was for control. It was one less thing she had to tie up or worry about, allowing her to focus entirely on me.

Speaking of which, my boring white bra and panties were feeling incredibly lame amongst the beautiful women. Even Gretchen had some kind of sexy nerd chic I had to appreciate.

“You can get dressed in the other room,” Soma said as my thoughts were obvious to her. “I’ll get these girls some drinks, and Gretchen will finish checking your vitals for a baseline.”

“Is this, like, an experiment?” Krystal (or Crystelle) said.

“Something like that,” Soma said as she led the girls to another room.

Gretchen placed a cold stethoscope against my chest, and I gasped in shock. She giggled at me, then pulled the stethoscope away and breathed on it dramatically to heat it up. “Sorry,” she said. “I never had much bedside manner.”

“You’ve been plenty accommodating,” I said.

Gretchen blushed. “You’re my first alien patient.”

Something stirred in me. I didn’t know what it was, but it was something like hunger. And something like cruelty. And something like lust. All at once, it was like I was back with Carly — the best friend and girlfriend that never was — but I didn’t have to simply burn next to her anymore. I wasn’t confused about what I wanted, and I knew Gretchen would give it if I asked her. If she didn’t have the shields, I wouldn’t even have to go through the embarrassment and potential rejection of asking.

I could take.

And that was what stirred inside me: the thrill of taking.

“But not your first alien,” I said.

Gretchen blushed deeper this time and covered her face with her hands, letting her stethoscope fall and slap lightly against her chest. “Oh my god, that was so cheesy,” she said.

I laughed, but I wasn’t embarrassed. The warmth of my thrill was too strong to let me back down now. It was like a strong wine running through my veins, and I was a lightweight.

“But not wrong,” I said. I don’t know where my voice found the confidence or strength, but there was a stillness in me I had never known. Perhaps after spending so much time in the bodies and minds of dommes and submissives, I knew what to say, what strings to pull on. Or perhaps after watching people fuck and riding in their thrills and delights, some part of my shame had died to never return. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was the casualness with which I cupped Gretchen’s chin and pulled her eyes up to gaze into mine.

“Am I?” I said.

Gretchen tried to shake her head and pull away. My firm was tight. She wasn’t going anywhere. And honestly, I don’t think she was really trying. Her heart wasn’t in it.

“Am I?” I repeated.

“No,” Gretchen said. “Not my first.”

I released her chin and ran my hand over her cheek and up to her temple. “I can’t get in here,” I said, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t get inside of you.”

Her lips parted for an inaudible moan. My body was practically vibrating with the thrill of taking. I didn’t have to use an ounce of my power to know what she wanted and what I could get from her. I knew what to say next to get her to arch her head back and ease into my touch. I knew what to do with my other hand. I knew what her body wanted before she did. They were somehow all so similar, all so easy to play with.

Humans.

The thought was strange in my mind. But it settled in nicely. After all, I’d never felt comfortable in their presence. I was shy and nervous. I made them uncomfortable with my powers, and they scared me with their opinions. My parents told me God judged us, but they told me God was in everyone. That meant anyone was my creator and judge. Kori. Eidolon. Io. Bastille. Surya. Gretchen. All of them. It didn’t matter if they were a civilian, the world’s greatest hero, or a pure-of-heart saint. They held my value in their eyes, and it felt safer to retreat like Eidolon and hide in the shadows.

But Soma had shown me how simple they were. They followed pleasure and ran from pain. They wanted acceptance. They chased a vain notion of glory and the lie that glory granted some form of immortality. They were little better than cattle. Gretchen was a whore for Soma because it felt good, because she finally felt seen, because she finally felt like she belonged somewhere. I could give that to her just as easily. All I had to do to take her away was take away the fear that radiated from her around Soma. I could be a benevolent goddess whereas Soma was dark and terrifying. I could be just as confident and demanding — take just as much from this human — but I didn’t have to hurt her the way Soma did.

“She likes the pain,” Soma said. Gretchen squeaked, and I pulled my hand away from her face as Soma walked into our presence. Gretchen’s cheeks burned red as she pretended to be busy checking my vitals. “The girls are ready. Are you?”

“I need clothes,” I said. I wasn’t embarrassed by Soma catching me.

“Good,” Soma said in both word and thought. “I’d thought you’d never ask.”

Is this some lesson about the clothes making the girl? I thought.

You’re seeing them for what they really are, Soma thought back.

“I don’t want her,” I said, switching back for Gretchen’s sake. “Keep your toy.”

“And what do you want?”

I looked over Soma. I never cared for the leather look. It felt like someone deliberately trying to be tough and intimidate people. Though Soma probably didn’t know that when she arrived on the planet. She wasn’t aware of our tropes. No. She probably did it because —

“It feels good,” Soma said, running her fingertips over her jacket and letting them dance over her tight stomach and flirt with the edges of her breasts. “Humans are good for some things, apparently. So far, I’ve found leather and pizza to be their great contributions to the universe.”

So, what if I didn’t care for any tropes? What if I wanted what made me feel good? That’s it. Just for my pleasure, the way it sits on my skin, and the way I feel in a room in that look. What would I want? Lace lingerie, stockings, and garters? No. Leather? No. Latex? No. Well, I always liked lace. It’s a bit stereotypical, and I don’t want the classic look. I think —

“Black lace. And a dress, tight and fitting to my form. Cleavage. And a slit on the skirt all the way up.” I nodded to myself, picturing how I would look walking into a room, imagining how the most expensive lace would feel on my skin. “Yes,” I said. “Lace.”

Krystal

“We’re ready for you now,” the mousy little librarian chick said to us before closing the door behind her.

I stood up but C was taking her time. We’d been offered champagne, and I passed because it’s like 10 AM and my sponsor would kill me. But C was deep into her fourth flute and well on her way to needing her own sponsor soon.

“God, I miss champagne,” I said.

C grabbed another flute and offered it to me while downing the first. “Here.”

Every part of my being wanted to take that glass. Like, I could feel the electric currents of my soul aching for that glass. But three years in seven different rehab facilities taught me how to center myself, how to graciously say ‘no’ to my sister who was an idiot for even offering. Besides, I had to get home to my wife and kid after this. I could never look Gwen in the eye after getting wasted with a client ’cause even one sip wouldn’t be enough. If I started, I wouldn’t stop, and I’d put C’s budding alcoholism to shame.

I shook my head. “No,” I said. For Gwen, I thought.

C looked properly embarrassed. “Sorry, bad joke,” she said.

“Yeah. Bad.”

The door opened again, and the hot domme in leather stood in front of us. “Before you go in there, I want to remind you of the rules.”

“Yeah, yeah,” C said. “Nothing we don’t want to do.” She stumbled forward and some of her champagne splashed out of the flute. She solved that problem by quickly downing the rest. She should really have had breakfast before we came here. It is the most important meal of the day after all.

“I don’t care if she asks for it or demands it,” Soma said. “I’m paying you.”

“Right,” I said, taking a deep breath. This bitch didn’t just want me to fuck my sister for money, she wanted me to want to fuck my sister. Had she met C?

The leather-girl slowly turned her gaze on me and arched an eyebrow. I shivered under her gaze and waited for some reprimand. People loved to hire prostitutes to feel powerful. I mean, they could get the pleasure from a good toy and the gentle loving of their right hand. But a woman to give that pleasure to? A woman to boss around? Twins to force to fuck each other for your amusement? That’s a power trip, not a pleasure trip.

Leather-girl smirked. “You’re perfect for this,” she said. “But there’s just one thing.” She stepped towards me and grabbed my little black dress by the neckline. I flinched and stepped back, but she wasn’t bothered by that. She jerked her hands apart and ripped the front of my dress until the neckline was down to my navel.

“Hey!” I snapped.

“Woah, bitch,” C said, stumbling forward to my aid.

Soma looked up at her, and C froze in tracks. Slowly, she turned her face to mine, and I suppressed a second shiver. “Take off your bra. I want her to be able to tell you apart.” She pointed to C. “Take your hair down. Then come out and sit around, doing only what you feel like doing.”

“Can we leave?” C asked as she undid her hair and let it cascade down her back. Mine was still up in its bun with two perfectly curled strands hanging over my ears which took way too long to perfect this morning. I felt bad that C’s work to style her hair to match was being undone, but that was the way of this work.

Power before pleasure.

“Of course,” the stranger said. “After fifteen minutes with my friend, if you want to leave, if you feel like leaving, you may go.”

“Sweet,” C said. “Then give us a minute and we’ll be right there.”

“Good.”

The woman turned around and stepped out of the bathroom, refusing to close the door behind her. I closed it, and turned to the mirror, looking at the damage to my dress. We were both wearing simple LBDs that hugged our collarbones and barely covered our pussies. Now my dress was barely clinging to my body, as a thin rip went from my collarbone down to my navel.

“Gwen is going to kill me,” I said as I fussed with it. C stepped behind me and peeled down the dress to get access to the clasps in the back. “She loved this dress.”

“With this job you could buy twelve of these dresses.”

“We had our first date in this dress.” And our first date after rehab finally stuck. Gwen wanted to show me I could have fun with her without booze. I wanted to show her I was sexy without booze. We were both right.

“Then we can pay a really fucking good tailor to fix it.”

“Fine,” I said. “But I have no idea how it will stay up.”

“Skin tape,” C said. “I have some in my bag.”

“You’re a goddess,” I said.

“I want you to say that later when we’re —”

“Shut the fuck up,” I said through laughter though I was blushing. I was never comfortable with the twin gig, but I could only do this with C standing beside me. I was an angry drunk, and after a few DUIs, I upgraded to some bar fights and aggravated assaults. I keyed a girlfriend’s car, and allegedly scared another ex into thinking I was going to set her apartment on fire. Her apartment did catch fire, but I didn’t do it. Though few judges agreed. Enough charges on my record meant it was a bitch to find real work, and when Gwen got laid off, I said I would take care of her and our daughters. That’s when I approached C to look for call-girl work. She suggested the twin thing as a way to help show me the ropes. I was repulsed, but she insisted it was like acting on stage or maybe masturbating. We weren’t fucking, we were putting on a show. Yet she got drunk for each job, and I had to fuck my sister with and in front of strangers while sober.

I hated it.

“There,” C said after taping the dress to my skin, so it still hugged my body despite the tear. “Look good?”

“Yeah,” I lied. “Looks good.”

In fact, C did look good. Even with her hair down and almost reaching her butt, the LBD hugged her curves. The emerald we wore at our neck highlighted our green eyes. The slight lines under her skin showed she was someone who took care of her body, which she did. She dragged me to morning runs every day at 5 AM claiming it was job insurance and the only way she knew how to get rid of a hangover. She looked like a high-class prostitute.

Me?

I looked like a whore.

There was a slight knock on the door. “It’s time,” said a voice I assumed was the nervous cutey.

“Showtime,” C said.

“Break a leg,” I said to her reflection.

“As long as it’s yours,” she said, continuing our mantra.

“What’s yours is mine,” I said.

“Then help me fuck myself,” she said, finishing the joke. I smiled, relaxing into the moment as we stepped out of the bathroom and into the penthouse apartment. I expected the scientist girl to be waiting for us, but there was no sign of her. As we stepped through the hallway, there was some soft Muzak playing in what amounted to the living room — though in my experience few people really lived in their penthouse apartment. Maybe we should call it the den? I dunno. Rich people are weird.

I looked for any sign of leather girl, but there was nothing. Instead, there was the first girl — the one we had seen in white panties and bra on a hospital bed when we came in. Except she was nothing like that now. She was still slight and thin. She was waifish in an elegant way, and that elegance was only heightened in the stunner of a dress she was wearing as she stood by the bar, waiting for us. It had a high neckline, going up to her ears, but there was a cut out of her small but perky and round tits that gave a great hint of cleavage and showed she was as braless as me. The dress was long-sleeved, made entirely of layered dark lace that covered her skin but gave scandalous peeks of flesh. The lace could have been black and looked dark blue next to her cobalt blue hair that was short and had slight and effortless waves to it despite the length. She had huge diamond encrusted sapphire earrings in and a matching ring on her right hand. And all of that was beautiful and jaw-dropping, but it was nothing compared to the slit that went all the way up to her waist on the left side. The skirt went to the floor and hugged black stilettos. But it was the slit that made C gasp next to me and even dried my mouth a bit. The girl had seriously great legs.

“Thank you,” the stranger said.

She smiled, and warmth spread over my body, radiating from my chest like the perfect cup of hot chocolate after a long day in the cold. It’s true that most clients were men who wanted to live out their twin fantasy, and I felt my body instantly responding to the chance to perform for a woman.

“With a woman, I’d hope,” said the stranger.

“What are you talking about?” C asked. She stepped towards our host and received a drink from the beautiful woman in the lace dress. C stopped and looked at the Old Fashioned offered to her. “How did you know how I take it?”

The woman ignored her and kept her eyes fixed on me. “You tell me,” her voice filled my head, but her mouth didn’t move.

“How?” I asked.

She smirked and shook her head slightly. Then she lifted a manicured hand — nails black and pointed (my skin tingled at the thought of them running over my back, running over my … everywhere) — and tapped her forehead. “In here,” her voice said again while her lips remained still.

“How?” I thought.

“Good girl,” she thought back at me, and I shivered. Tingles spread all over my spine, up the back of my neck, and over my scalp, making it feel as though it was shrinking into a good scratch.

“You can read minds,” I thought.

“Very good girl,” she thought back. She arched an eyebrow and took a slow sip of her drink. “If you want privacy from C, just think real hard. That’ll keep it between us.” She winked, and my knees softened. I found it strange that she knew I called Crystelle C, but nothing like paranoia or fear bubbled up at the situation. It should have. I wanted it to. In any other situation, if we were fucking a super, I’d get C out of here and —

“You’ll forgive me for not making you one, Krystal,” the woman said. “I didn’t want to make you refuse it.”

I nodded. Something was off. The agency never said we were meeting with a super. And I didn’t like the way this woman was looking at me. But I couldn’t build the panic to do no anything. That warm feeling — like a buttered rum on a frosty winter night — spread through my body. I felt my cheeks flush like I was two shots too deep, and my vision even began to blur slightly. But I hadn’t had anything to drink. How? I was stone cold sober, and —

“I’m Synapse,” the woman said. “So, you can both stop thinking of me as ‘the client’ or ‘the Jane’ or ‘that woman.’ “She turned and stared C down, “or ‘that fucking hot woman.’” C blushed and finished off her drink. In one smooth motion, Synapse took the drink from C and replaced it with another.

“You’re in Aurora Flight, right?” C asked. “Gosh, I grew up obsessed with you all. I had a crush on Bastille for like ever. She’s probably responsible for my sexual awakening.”

Synapse laughed. “Bastille, huh? It was Kori that did it for me.” She took a slow sip of her drink.

“Korporeal? Did you two ever?”

“Not yet.” Synapse put down her drink. “But I think soon.”

“Oh really?” C asked, stepping next to Synapse as though they were new best friends. “I haven’t heard anything about it.”

“Is she always this vapid?” Synapse thought at me. I laughed, and C looked at me, concerned.

“Nothing,” I said with a wave of my hand. “A funny thought.”

“Yeah, she’s not the brains of the operation,” I thought, and then suddenly a wave of … something washed over me. I staggered forward as though I lost balance on my heels, and Synapse was there in a moment, reaching out to catch me. She grabbed my forearm, and the wave washed over me again, radiating from her hand. Everything went white as it felt like warm bubbles were released in my brain and surged down through my body. Down over my tits and my stomach down down down between my legs and —

I moaned.

“Oh, shit,” C said as she clicked over to me. But Synapse was still, holding my forearm as overwhelming pleasure radiated from her touch. It was like the opposite of Novocain. Someone had turned on my skin and set the sensitivity too high. I staggered back, but Synapse left her hand there. It slid down my forearm to my hand, and I moaned again as it felt like a feather tickling my nipple, but it was just her touch.

“Imagine what I could do if I was trying,” Synapse thought.

Pictures flooded my mind of Synapse’s soft lips kissing me, of them pressed against my breasts, of her tongue flicking my hard nipples, of her head between my legs, of her tongue slithering deep inside me. Of me blacking out from pleasure.

“Almost better than a strong drink,” Synapse thought. “Though imagine what I could do to any alcohol in your system.”

The thought was sobering, and I found my footing and pulled my hand away. “I don’t drink.”

“Let me help you sit down,” Synapse said, ignoring my last thought. She reached for my hand again, but I didn’t let her have it. Instead, I let C grab my hand and take me to a plush leather armchair.

“What’s wrong?” C asked.

“God, she’s always so clueless,” Synapse thought. “It’s exhausting.”

“Nothing,” I said.

“Do you want some water?” C said.

“Or something stronger?” Synapse offered.

“Or juice?” C asked.

“Have you noticed everything with her is a question?”

“I … um …” I held my forehead and tried to still my body. The tingles were still roaming up and down my body in little pulses, like waves rippling back and forth over my skin. It wasn’t unpleasant — quite the opposite — but I felt my control slipping. And the constant badgering from C and Synapse was overwhelming.

“Do you think I’m talking to her in her mind?” Synapse asked.

I shook my head to both of them. “I just need a minute,” I said.

“Because there isn’t much going on in there. Like, nothing.”

Synapse was right about one thing.

“Just one thing?”

I wanted a drink. No. Not me. My body wanted a drink. My addiction wanted a drink. Years of dependency and self-destruction wanted a drink. I went through my mantras that my sponsor had taught me, thinking over and over, “I choose to be sober today.” I conjured images of me stumbling home in dark alleys blocks away from my car or apartment or friends. I summoned all the times I woke in a stranger’s home including — I shuddered at the thought — the guys who took me home even though I — even though —

“A sobering memory,” Synapse said. I looked up to see her standing over me. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“I —” I wanted to feel anger, but it was true she didn’t know. She may have picked up on my urge to drink and me suppressing that urge. But she couldn’t know how it destroyed me. How one drink could rip apart my marriage and make me lose my daughter.

“I’m so sorry,” Synapse’s hand reached out to me. Again, the warm chocolate-y feeling radiated from her touch. She sat next to me, and C sat on the other side. But when my twin took my hand, the same eruption of pleasant calm spread over my body. The tension and trauma rushed out of my body as I sank back into the leather chair, exhausted.

“I’m sorry,” I said to both of them. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me today.”

“Hey,” C said as she stroked my hand. The melting feeling was re-ignited and stoked with each brush of her skin on mind. Tingles erupted over me, but not the sort that accompanied arousal or panic. It was the kind of tingles that lulled you to sleep, that put everything at ease. “It’s okay,” C said. “I got you. I —” C looked up at Synapse. The telepathic super nodded at her.

Funny, I had forgotten that we were on a job. Somehow it was turning into a random therapy session after Synapse had — Synapse had —

“Shhh,” Synapse said. She sat on my other side. “I’m sorry about the alcohol. It’s a trigger for you, and —”

“Yeah, that was totally my bad,” C added. “Sorry, hun.”

Synapse took my other hand and started stroking it. I was too rattled to fight it as both women sat on either side of me, stroking my hand and whispering sweet nothings. Each time I tried to talk — mostly to apologize — they shushed me again and kept stroking my hand, keeping me still, centering me, bringing me back to my body.

“You choose to be sober today,” Synapse thought at me.

“I choose to be sober today,” I echoed.

“Yeah, that’s right,” C said. “You choose to be sober.”

A tear rolled down my face. I was close. So fucking close. That would have been a disaster. More than a disaster. It wouldn’t be just falling back down the hole I’ve been trying to crawl out of for five years. It would be blowing up that hole and everything around it. There would be no escape out of it this time. Gwen would never forgive me and —

A tear rolled down my cheek, but C was quick to wipe it away. Her hand lingered on my face, holding my cheek. The strange and soothing pulse of her touch was still there, washing over me. My face relaxed, and I felt it reaching deep into my mind.

“Everything is going to be okay,” C said. “I’m here. We’re here.”

I closed my eyes, trying to lean into the soothing sensation of their voices and their touch, fighting the feeling of vertigo as I stood on the cliff of everything I loved.

“Sister is here,” C said. “She’s going to take loving care of you.”

I nodded but kept my eyes shut. C would take care of me. She always would. She may have been the more reckless and foolish one, but she always acted like the older sister when it came to taking care of me — even though I was five minutes older than her. When our parents died at an early age, she was always protecting me. Fighting for me — literally. She was the one that got me into rehab. Even when I quit in the middle of a program or relapsed, she wasn’t fazed. She always found me and took me back in. No questions asked. She always took care of me, and there was no way I could pay her back.

“Sister will take care of you,” C said again.

But I want to pay her back.

I opened my eyes. C’s face was close to mine, and I knew the kiss was coming before she moved. But it didn’t matter. I wanted to pay her back. I needed to pay her back. “All these years,” I said as we broke apart from our kiss. “And I’ve never properly thanked you.”

C smiled softly. Her lips — her perfect lips — needed their match, their pair, pressed against them again. They weren’t whole without it. The thought was strange in my head, but I knew that C was empty without me.

“That’s why she always saved you. To complete herself.”

“I will always take care of you,” C said, still stroking my cheek.

The moment was heavy between us. I’d kissed her a hundred times for a dozen clients. But that was for them. That was to get them off. But Synapse faded to the background. This was between C and I. This was our complicated past. This was our wounding on display.

“Show me,” I whispered, pulling her in for another kiss. C leaned into the kiss, sighing softly as our lips danced together. I had heard her moan for clients before, and this was different. This was real. I felt her breath run all the way through my body, like it carried the same soothing touch as her hands, as her lips, as the smell of her, as the feel of her skin in my hands. All of it soothed — but especially her breath. It ran through me, and the terror of my addiction faded away. For years, I’d been running from it. Not just alcohol, but the fear of alcohol. I went to parties with fists clenched knowing there might be booze there. I didn’t go to clubs. I didn’t watch sports with friends or at stadiums. It was always the fear of relapse haunting me.

But as C’s breath filled me, it all faded away.

I pulled C into my lap, thanking her between kisses, desperate for her to know how much she meant to me, for her to feel my gratitude on every inch of her skin. I held her face and the tears streamed down my cheeks, mingling with our kisses. But she didn’t complain. She didn’t stop kissing me. She didn’t stop filling me with her breath and easing decades of pain.

Her hands roamed over my body, and the fuzzy warmth of her touch made each inch of my body thrum. Her fingertips danced over my hands and up my arms. Each touch delighted me and numbed me. It took away the shock and filled me with joy. It eased me and excited me. Her fingertips on my thighs. Her fingertips between my breasts. More fingertips than one woman could have. Hands all over me, easing me. Softening me. Opening me. Hands between my legs. Hands on my breasts. Hands on my nipples. Hands inside me.

My dress was gone, and I worked to get C free of hers. We had to match. My mind was obsessed with it. When her hand went to my nipple, my hand went to hers. She was free of addiction, so I had to be free to. She was delightful and free of fear, so I should be too. She was having a drink, so I should too. She was kissing me, so I should kiss her. She loved and trusted Synapse, so I should too.

I arched my back as pleasure washed over me. Synapse was latched to my breast, enjoying my nipple with her tongue. I looked down at the blue-haired woman in awe. She truly was a super woman, beyond what we could do or understand. In a matter of minutes, she brought me and my sister closer together. She cured me of my addiction to alcohol. She showed me my real soulmate was C and not Gwen. She showed me how touch can fight back the darkness. And now she wanted me.

Synapse wanted me.

“I’m so proud of you,” Synapse thought of me.

“Thank you,” I said. “You cured me. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

The soothing touch of C was gone, but I didn’t care. I had thanked C, but I needed to thank Synapse. I had so many women to thank for healing me, for accepting me as I am.

“You’re healed,” Synapse thought. “Be free of the fear.”

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” Tears rolled down my face. “I can never thank you enough.”

Synapse pulled off my breast. “How about we celebrate first,” she said. Her eyes looked up and over, and I followed them to see C standing in front of me, offering me a drink.

“Cheers,” C said with a wide smile on her face. “I’m so proud of you.”

The fear was gone. I had nothing to worry about. I was healed. I took the drink with my smile matching C’s dopey one. We matched as we raised our glasses. We matched as we downed them at the same time, not stopping between sips. ‘One and done,’ I used to say when it came to sipping a drink. Everything was a shot, but some were sweeter than others.

The alcohol burned through my body, and its fire swallowed up the peace and contentment of my moment. The alcohol carried the fear with it, but before I could say anything, C was offering me another drink. She had her own. We had to match. Our second drink matched the first one as we downed them in one go, wasting no time and not a drop of alcohol. I even saved the small trinkle on my chin with a finger and fed it to myself before I could think better.

The second drink was like choking on the Arctic Ocean. Ice. Dread. Salt. Terror. Cold. So much cold. My skin raised as the ice gripped me. I stood up, and the room spun around me. Too fast. Too much.

“What have I done?” I said.

But neither Synapse nor C responded. C was back at the bar, making another drink. Synapse sat back in her seat, watching me carefully.

“What have I done?!” I thought at her.

But she only returned silence.

C turned, holding two more drinks in her hand. A familiar war waged in my mind. I knew I shouldn’t take them — even though I had to match with C — but I wasn’t deep enough yet. I felt the alcohol blurring my vision and clouding my judgment. The room wobbled as I tried to move, but I was miserable. I felt the cold tendrils of melancholy spreading over me again, and I knew the only way to numb it was another drink. And then another. And then another. I could either be shit-faced or blacked out, but either would be better than sitting with what I’d done.

I took the third drink and drank it quickly, not bothering to match C. Darkness rippled through me. Rage burned on my fingertips. Rage. Cold and lethal rage was filling me.

“Gwen’s going to kill me,” I said.

But C still had that dopey smile on her face.

“Did you hear what I said?” I didn’t know why I was shouting, but it felt good. I had to let that darkness out. I had to move it somewhere. “Gwen is going to kill me!”

But C still had that stupid smile.

“I don’t know why she did that,” Synapse thought at me. “She should know better.”

“Why did you do that?” I said to C. “You should know better.”

A look of confusion washed over C’s face. Her eyes darted back and forth between Synapse and me, trying to understand what was going on.

“Jesus, she’s so fucking stupid.”

“Jesus, you’re so fucking stupid,” I said.

“Stupid fucking cunt.” I stepped closer to C, but she was stuck still with that stupid bimbo expression on her face, like she didn’t speak the same language as me, like she didn’t understand what she’d just done to me. She’d just ruined me.

“Stupid fucking cunt.”

“She was always the stupid one.”

“You were always the stupid one!”

The rage in my fingertips took over. I had to change her face. Her stupid fucking face. Was she just going to smile at me while I relapsed? Was she happy?

“No. She’s proud.”

“You’re proud of what you’ve done?” I asked. But C didn’t answer. She kept grinning like a moron. I stepped closer. She had to stop smiling. She absolutely had to.

“As long as you’re addicted, you need her. She’s using you. Manipulating you.”

The rage in my body took over. My hand lashed out and smashed against her face, slapping her hard. She cried out, and the darkness in my body softened immediately. It was the soothing touch once again. I felt it there, in her body, in her skin. It wasn’t her touch; I didn’t need her to touch me at all. But it was in her body. And I could have that.

“Take it.”

I could take that.

C staggered away, holding the side of her face, but I was quick. I grabbed the back of her hair and pulled it tight. Her head snapped back, and the pain drove her to her knees.

“Good.”

Good.

With another hand on her throat, I felt the softness spreading over again. The fear was fading. The rage was fading. There was only the pleasant buzz of the alcohol. The pure joy of drinking, which I hadn’t known since I was a teenager. It was back. It was back. It was back.

But C still had that stupid dopey look on her face.

“You fucking bitch,” I said. I spat on her face. I don’t know where the urge came from, but the darkness went with it. I felt the warm fuzziness of play filling me. I spat on her again and again, adding insult after insult. I slapped her again, and her cry of pain softened my own agony.

But still she smiled like a moron at me.

“You need more time to take it out of her.”

I dropped C and let her crumple to the floor. “I guess I need more time to take it out on you,” I said. I kicked her in the ribs, and the warmth washed over me. God, it felt good. So good.

“Now get me another drink,” I commanded. And though she was slow moving, C crawled to the bar, rose to her feet, and started making me more drinks.

If she filled me with more darkness, I’d have more to share with her.

And Gwen.

Soma

Soma smiled as she watched the redhead with the ripped dress take her first drink, then her second, then her third. As she took her fourth, fifth, and sixth, the alcohol ran down her chin, her neck, and between her breasts. The other was quick to waste nothing, gliding her tongue from her sister’s navel to her neck. Then, following a strange new urge Soma felt Synapse put in her, the battered twin kissed her sister, giving back all the alcohol.

“Waste not, want not,” Synapse said as she moved to a chair, enjoying the show she had put in motion. The twin in the ripped dress was crying, and Synapse let her feel the weight of her regret and pain. Soma felt it rippling through the wall of the hotel room, washing over her. It was such a sharp melancholy. Soma would have cut it off if she were running things, but Synapse was almost feeding off it. It was cruel and relentless, and certainly humans would have found it psychotic.

Soma loved it.

“You wanted to know what I wanted.” Synapse voice filled Soma’s head.

“Is this not it?” Soma thought back. “I didn’t detect much reluctance on your part.”

“This is part of it, yes.”

“And the rest?”

“Send in Gretchen, and I’ll show you.”

“I’m not sending —”

“Leave her shields on. I don’t care.” Soma turned to where the camera was in the corner of the room. She raised a manicured finger, twisted it, and curled it, beckoning for another plaything to join her in the hotel room.

“I know exactly what I want now. I’ll give you a sample here, and then you and I need to start planning my coming out party.”

“Coming out?”

Synapse laughed in her chair. The twins making out with each other didn’t notice. “A human thing. I’ll explain later. Send in your pet.”

“Go in there,” Soma said.

“E-E-Excuse me?” Gretchen said.

“Go in there.” Soma turned to Gretchen and gave a wide, predatory smile. “And don’t do anything you don’t feel like doing.”