The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

You don’t care why I’m writing this, do you? You just wanna hear more stories about Dick. Fuck, I can’t blame you. I got dozens of ‘em. It’s almost boring.

Hey, I said “almost.”

But if I shoot my whole wad, you might not get through it all, and there’s more to this story than a bottle of Jergens and a box of Kleenex.

Like every tale worth telling, this one is about a girl. (I just watched “Spider-Man” again last night. So sue me.) And I haven’t even mentioned the girl yet.

Plus, I have to tell you how I finally got Dick off my back, and got my own dick back.

I first saw her in this very coffee shop, as a matter of fact. Right over there. She breezed in looking for a phone book.

Like with every female I encounter, my subconscious Lust Diagnostic ran and issued a summary profile.

She was in her early twenties, I’d guessed, though a moment later she looked seventeen. (As in “Sexy + 17”.) Remember, I’d only realized I was Old a few months earlier, and then Dick came along and made age more or less academic, so my age indicator was lacking in precision. I never did figure out how old she was, but I’m sure Dick could tell you. Probably hammer out her birthday in morse code.

She was five-three, maybe five-four. Curvy. Slightly-tanned skin. Honey-blonde hair, shoulder length. Short summer dress, tight down to the hips with a ruffled and flared skirt, strappy wedge-heeled sandals. Looked a little too country and not enough rock-n-roll for this town.

Perfect.

I should have known right then I was in trouble.

Ordinarily, a girl that close to my personal ideal of femality would send Dick into overdrive, and I’d let him run his course—after all, with Dick’s tastes, I’ve taken one for the team more times than I care to count; I deserved some playtime too. See, even Dick’s a creature of habit, and he’d long since gotten into a rut. (Insert rim shot here.) I know it seems nuts to complain about getting to bed women more or less at will, especially when you’re as... average as I am, but you try it for three months and see if you don’t start to get tired of servicing overpampered undersexed upper-class housewives and overpierced undershaved neogoth chicks. That’s what Dick’s been into lately. I don’t know where Dick gets it from, honestly, because both are kind of turn-offs for me. (And even if they weren’t before, they would be by now.) If I had a shrink, they’d probably try to tell me I was taking out my aggressions against women who didn’t fit my preconceived notion of proper roles or something. But really, it’s not me. Unfortunately, all it takes is a little flash of cleavage or some exposed leg to catch my eye for an instant and Dick’s all up in it.

Sorry, got a little off-point there. What was I saying? Oh, right.

I should have known right then I was in trouble. Ordinarily, I’d let Dick do what Dick does and score me some physical fantasy fulfillment. But there was a glitch in the matrix or something. Dick hesitated. And I really wasn’t in the mood—I mean, I’d just taken the first bite of my grilled cheese. This coffee shop makes a really good grilled cheese—all hot and gooey, with none of that plasticky greasiness you get when you try to make one with regular cheddar off the block at home. So I clamped down on Dick, focused on the sandwich, and didn’t give Phone Book Girl another thought.

If I never saw her again, I’d probably still be letting Dick do the talking, and accepting the chaos that comes with him. It wasn’t like I could ask for help.

But Fate swooped in and smacked me upside the head.

Because the next day after work, I got back to my apartment and she was moving in next door.

Standing right there on the stairs with a box labeled “Lingerie” in that adorably girly loopy lettering they all seem to have.

I know what you’re thinking—the Move-In fantasy. Hot chick’s moving in, you offer to help with the heavy stuff, you get to setting up the bed, she falls on it, letting out a contented sigh and some lame shit about how she’s gonna rest there for just a minute, and then she lays some even lamer shit on you like you look tired and why don’t you lay down for a second too, or maybe she asks you if you feel that busted spring in her mattress, and you dumbly say you don’t feel any busted spring, and then she jumps on top of you and says Well then let’s break one together...

Okay, kind of fell apart there at the end, but that’s because I’m a little rusty on how these fantasies go. See, if you’re thinking that way you’re still not fully appreciating the terrible magnificence of Dick, because if you were you’d know the Dick version of the Move-In fantasy is this: you walk right up to her, grab her around the waist, throw her down on the bed, unzip your fly as she voluntarily shucks her clothes—or just hikes up her skirt, if that’s the mood you’re in—and Bam! you’re making your O face.

That’s what should have happened. Light hits eyes, image hits brain, recognition system alerts His Maleness, and Trojan Man mounts up. Badda-bing, badda-boom-boom.

But somewhere I must have gotten my wires crossed. When I saw her standing there, sex wasn’t the first thing on my mind. For whatever reason, Image Processing sent the data stream to an old system that hadn’t been used in a long time. Not since I got Dicked. For a moment, I was the old me.

Okay, actually I wasn’t the old me—even the old me was an objectifying lust machine.

I was the chick-flick version of me. The me that queues up the ending of The Fifth Element at least once a month and has a good cry. (Shut up. It’s a beautiful moment.)

But that version of me needed a few seconds to spin up to power, so I didn’t know what to make of her yet. Into that void of indecision rushed an event that collided with destiny and forever altered its course.

There at the coffee shop, I just saw tits, legs, ass, hair, dress, feet. Here on the stairs, this was really my first look at her. And I was smitten.

Maybe because I’d done the object-analysis already, I was able to see her as a person now. Maybe it was this second-first look that fostered the sense of attraction.

Or maybe it was the way she fell into my arms.

I’d like to tell you I saw her heel break and her balance fail, and I’d like to tell you I used my cat-like reflexes to lunge and save her from serious injury. Truth is I was staggering back at the base of the stairs with this soft warm weight pressing into me before I knew anything at all had happened. Then a muffled scratchy thump on the ground marked the “Lingerie” box’s scattering landing.

The way she’d fallen she was half-facing me. And her eyes met mine.

There’s something about catching a woman in a moment of vulnerability that’s just... well, sexy. Not sexy the way Dick thinks. It just makes a man feel like a man. It presents him with that paradox of predator and protector. He suddenly sees his purpose. Conquer Her, Care For Her.

So I was thinking, Hey, This is a Pretty Cool Moment.

Then Chick-Flick Me finally got up to speed and issued an alert.

She was beautiful. So beautiful my heart stopped. So beautiful I felt faint.

So beautiful I couldn’t look at her.

Because I didn’t want her to get Dicked.

See, ever since Dick came into my life, I’d just been going along for the ride. Sure, Dick made life complicated sometimes, but it was also pretty swell.

Yeah, I said swell.

Then, with one glance from her, the facade falls and suddenly I know I’m living in hell.

It’s always the eyes, isn’t it?

I’m not saying it was love at first sight. Let’s not get crazy. I was so far from it at the time it’s not even funny. But sometimes you just see a girl and there’s this aura. You just know she’s special. The meat-meter just goes offline—or at least you feel guilty getting a reading.

You think, Woah, there, this one’s a Nice Girl.

Bullshit—how can you know that? You’re projecting. This girl could be a stripper, or a con artist, or a serial killer for all you know.

So it’s not her at all, really, it’s just... you see a girl like that and you remember that there is such a thing as love, and there are people looking for it, and people in it. And you don’t know where you stand on the issue. Or where she stands. And that knocks you off balance for a minute.

Then she goes and does something sweet, like she talks to you, asks you for something, smiles, or...

...or lets you save her.

Okay, it was a small save, but it was a save nonetheless. It counts, dammit.

All these synapses shorting in my brain so close to the procreative drive centers had awakened Dick. I could already feel him digging for traction in my mind. But for some reason I was able to slow his grip.

Slow, but not stop. I knew I didn’t have much time if I wanted to protect her from Dick. And, you know—Nice Girl—I had to protect her.

I ran right up the stairs. I think she called after me, but I can’t be sure. Two seconds later, I’d locked myself in my apartment, and curled up in the farthest corner with last month’s Popular Mechanics.

Dick hates Popular Mechanics. And I hadn’t yet read this issue. Helicopters of the future and nuclear-powered mobile homes—Dick was done for the night.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t gone grocery shopping in a while, and hunger hit.

Get the door, it’s Domino’s.

No it’s not. It’s Her.

“Hi. I’m sorry if we got off on the wrong foot. I just wanted to thank you for—”

I slammed the door in her face.

I felt like shit doing it, but I had no choice.

She was dangerous. I was dangerous. Dick was dangerous.

She was impossibly cheery. “Was it something I said?” she said through the door.

“I’m contagious,” I yelled as I retreated, smug in the smartness of my lie.

“Oh, okay.” I heard her go back into her apartment.

Then my brain processed the image of her in my doorway.

Honey-blonde. Long, curls.

Some jewelry around her neck.

Perkiness reaching through a shrunken wifebeater.

Short little skirt, three rows of denim ruffles.

High-heeled mules with little plastic flowers on the straps.

And the face of an angel. Pixie nose. Soft, high cheekbones. Pouting lips. And big, bright, beautiful eyes.

Dick was coming online, and going right to Warp Nine.

I found myself heading for the front door. I knew in five seconds Dick would have me pushing my way into her apartment, her eyes would glaze over with brain-deadening lust, one of us would slip a raincoat on ol’ helmet-head, and we’d get to fucking.

And the little spark of a dream tucked away in the back of my mind would be extinguished.

But I didn’t get through the door. The phone rang. Habit answered it.

“Hi.” It was Her.

“Hi.”

“My name is Rebecca.”

She said it like it was a secret. Like it was her weakness.

I didn’t know how to respond. I think I mumbled my name. I don’t know. Mostly I was just dreading the inevitable triumph of my nemesis, Dick.

“I just wanted to... thank you.” She sounded hurt. Well, of course she was hurt. I’d been a complete asshole. But it was for her own protection.

“You’re welcome.”

“Did I do something wrong?” God damn it. Her voice was so soft. Lyrical. And thanks to me, tragic.

But the torturous guilt I felt seemed to be keeping Dick at bay.

It was a shitty way to maintain control.

“No,” I finally managed, “I just don’t want you to get sick.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Everything will be fine as long as you don’t get anywhere close to me.” Jeez, that sounded mean. Like she was the one with the disease.

“Oh.” Disappointment. She knew I was lying. “Okay. Well, when you get better, come say hi, okay?”

“Yeah.”

She hung up. Through the wall I heard her turn up her stereo. Madonna’s “Frozen.”

Mmmm, if I could melt your heart

Mmmm, we’d never be apart

Mmmm, give yourself to me

Mmmm, you hold the key

Talk about melodramatic. Hell, five minutes earlier I didn’t even know her name. But that song always hits me right between the eyes. I played it for my last girlfriend after she broke up with me. “Broke up”—we were never really together, which I thought made the song appropriate at the time, but looking back on it, it just made me look that much more desperate and obsessive.

And now here’s Rebecca, playing it loud enough to wake the neighbors. (Good thing it wasn’t yet ten o’clock.)

This of course meant that Rebecca and I had something in common—a penchant for mopey dramatics, and a song.

I didn’t leave for work the next morning until after I heard her go downstairs. Actually, she caught me peeking out through the curtains. She waved and yelled up at me. “I’m going shopping! See you tonight!” Like we were together or something.

And she was cheery. Like I hadn’t totally slammed her last night. She was taking it well. Or she was one of those people who pushed down sad feelings and covered them up with hyper-happiness. The kind of people who smile and wave one second, and then the next second they’re bawling their head off and sobbing in your arms while you look around hoping nobody thinks the sudden outburst is your fault. The kind of people they made three-day lockup suicide watches for.

I remember thinking, Woah, sport, slow down. Maybe she’s just a morning person. And maybe she just figures you’re one of those grumpy old men and it’s no big deal that you were mean to her. Maybe she just likes Madonna.

Man, I’d really let this girl get to me. I thought maybe I needed to go see if Wendy needed any service today. I liked Wendy—in that favorite-toy sort of way. But thinking of her that morning didn’t really do much for me.

Dick, on the other hand, was reminding me to grab another handful of Trojans...

Next day I saw a strange woman leaving Rebecca’s apartment. Did she have a roommate? If she did, the roommate was hot. She reminded me of Wendy. Smartly dressed, in a skirt and blazer and hose and heels that would be professional if it weren’t so tight and brief.

Hold the phone, that’s Rebecca.

She must have been looking for a job. I wondered what kind of job she was looking for. Maybe we had a position for her? (Dick’s got a position for her... Don’t think like that, you’ll wake Dick.)

At the risk of arousing Mr. Fucktacular, I let my eyes follow Rebecca all the way down and across the parking lot to get into her car. (I figured this was a safe enough distance that Dick couldn’t get me to do anything to her before she’d safely left. Bullshit—I just couldn’t look away.) As she slipped into the seat, I realized just how provocative the outfit really was. It clashed with the image i’d built up of her—this outfit was just a little too tarty. The only thing that looked right was the choker she always wore, the one with the pink crystal hanging from it. I’d been meaning to ask her about that. The rest of it looked almost... slutty.

Then I realized it might have been Dick’s doing. I flashed back to the time I’d suggested to Crystal (my boss’ young wife) that she dress a little more provocatively if she wanted to get her man’s attention. Dick had supercharged the comment, because the next day at lunch she’d come in looking dressed like a high-class hooker. Thank God I was the only one in at the time, because Dick hosed her right there in the hallway.

Had I influenced Rebecca the same way, subconsciously? Watching her as she buckled up and tugged down the skirt before driving off, I felt like a sleazebag. That outfit wasn’t her. That was Dick tainting her. She was going to go out to job interviews dressed like the starlet in a Cinemax erotic thriller, and she probably didn’t even realize anything was wrong. Everyone she met would assume her to be some kind of floozy out to sleep her way up the ladder, and she’d come home crying because no one would hire her.

Imagine how low I felt when that’s exactly what happened.

I’d actually come home on time for a change, and told that deadbeat in #6 not to park in Rebecca’s spot anymore. He’d just finished moving his car when Rebecca pulled up. I stood at my window, peeking through the curtains, entranced.

She sat in the car for a long time. When she got out, I could tell she’d been crying. She practically ran up the steps—for a second I thought she might fall with those damn heels of hers, but she made it.

Her outfit looked even sexier now than it did in the morning.

Dick twitched. But I smacked him down.

It would be so syrupy sweet for me to say that I was able to keep Dick’s pants on because I’d fallen in love with her. But I’m not going there. This is still a stranger we’re talking about. Love? It’s hard for me to even type those four letters together. I don’t like to think about it because of... well, there I go getting ahead of myself again. For now, let’s just say that seeing her made me realize that I wanted to fall in love, with somebody.

And then I realized that I couldn’t fall in love.

Because of Dick.

Because Dick gets all up in everything. Changes everything. Changes everyone.

And if Dick changed her, then whatever we might have together could never be true lov... damn, I almost spelled it out. Don’t let me do that. I can’t afford the therapy.

In retrospect, it probably didn’t have anything to do with her, specifically.

(Well, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.)

It was the idea of her. The perfect mate. The beauty unsullied. You see a girl and something hits you a certain way and all those romantic stirrings start building an image of her and how it would be so great to put her on a pedestal and then climb up on it and live the rest of your life with her. You imagine that she’s strong and smart and sexy and beautiful and yet lonely and vulnerable, and you’re just the guy to complete her. Trying to make that image real is probably worse torture than just letting Dick have his way, and more often than not it gets you labeled a stalker, but when it happens to you, you’re not thinking clearly.

Somehow she lines up things in your brain in a new way, and this one girl, you see her differently.

You see her as a woman.

You think to yourself, “she couldn’t possibly succumb to Dick. She’s too good, too pure. Angels must be watching over someone so wonderful.”

But you know there’s no angel.

There’s just Dick.

The phone rang.

“Could you come over and help me? I need to show you the other stuff I bought yesterday, so you can tell me if it’s okay or I need to take it all back.” Her voice sounded a little uneven, like she was trying not to be emotional.

I had to clench every muscle in my body, focusing intently on images of me jumping off a bridge, diving in front of a speeding car, running household current through my body. I was sending a message to Dick:

Don’t you fucking dare, Dick, or we’ll have it out once and for all.

“Are you there?”

I didn’t know how long I’d been clenching to keep Dick down, but I think he got the message.

“Yeah. Sorry. I was listening, I just—”

Her interruption was pointed. “I know you’re not contagious. I saw you at work.”

Woah, shit. Was this sweet girl stalking me or something? Oh wait, I’d been in Human Resources that afternoon. She’d probably been there to look for a job. Okay. Wonder why she didn’t say Hi? (Good thing she didn’t.)

Hey, chump, emotional girl on the line. Pay attention.

“So come over,” she said.

“I can’t. It wouldn’t be right.”

“Please. I trust you.”

“You shouldn’t. Seeing you today... I don’t think I could...”

“Oh, God, so it’s true! You think I’m a slut, don’t you? You don’t like me. I messed up. I’m always messing up.”

Woah. She liked me. She “liked me” liked me. Fuck.

And like every other girl who’d ever liked me, I’d made her cry. Double Fuck.

“Rebecca, no. That’s not what I meant. You’re a very beautiful girl.” Dammit, Dick was stirring. Worse, I sensed that she caught my tone and what it meant: You’re a very beautiful girl, but it wouldn’t work between us. I don’t want to hurt you.

If only I could tell her why.

She sniffled, shoring herself up. “I don’t know why I’m like this around you. I’m sorry. I won’t bother you anymore.”

And that was it.

Except that I could hear her sobbing through the thin walls.

I wished I could go knock on her door, take her into my arms, tell her everything would be okay.

But of course if I did that, everything wouldn’t be okay. Dick would take her. He’d crush her.

Just hearing her made me wonder what other dirty deeds Dick had already done to her while we’d talked. I’d mistakenly assumed that since I never felt Dick tugging on me that he was asleep. Yet obviously he’d twisted her once already, getting her to dress up like a little tart and fucking with her life in the process. I never felt it happen, but it did.

Dick was getting clever. Dick knew I was fighting him on this one.

And Dick knew if he let me win one, I might be able to break his hold for good.

But what did it mean to win? Did it mean driving Rebecca away? That didn’t seem like winning to me. That seemed like the ultimate loss. But it wasn’t like I had a choice. I knew Dick was always one glance, one whisper, one whiff of perfume away.

So I’d planned to step up my efforts to become a real asshole.

But Rebecca wasn’t having any of it. She sucked me right in. She found a weakness.

She called me at work.