The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“So, how’d it go?” Mr. Brenner asks me after class, on a Monday afternoon.

I know he’s asking about the mind-addling file he emailed my mom last Friday, and I can feel heat rising to my face (since I hadn’t listened to his warning, and had definitely abused my power over her a little). Really, I’d only done something skeevy the one time before coming to my senses and making her cook and clean, for the rest of the weekend, like a normal mom should. It wasn’t even really a big deal. It’s not like anyone but me knows about it, at least.

“Great!” I say with a forced smile.

I try not to remember my mom’s oblivious humming as I’d groped her huge tits and came against her toned backside, the bliss overtaking me at the soft warmth of her bare skin, while the sharp scent of her high-end perfume made me dizzy.

It’d only happened the once, after all. Once was nothing. Forgettable. It might as well never have happened….

Or that’s the narrative I’m going with, especially with Mr. Brenner grinning at me, his thick lenses gleaming like bug-eyes and his cheeks rosy with pride. “I told you it was a magical thing, yeah? And it only gets better. The more you ask of them, the more they’ll start to do without you even asking! It’s a slow thing, because at first you’ll have to ask a lot—”

My eye twitches as I recall how I’d asked my mom to take off her top, and then her bra (God—her tits and toned body are so sexy—but it’s so wrong, my mind whirs, heat travelling from my face down to my groin), but Mr. Brenner doesn’t notice.

“—soon you’ll feel like ‘who the hell is this?’, because it kind of feels as if they were replaced by a pod-person or something!” Mr. Brenner laughs, slapping one of his pawlike hands to my shoulder. “I don’t even have to ask my wife to cook dinner anymore—she’s even stepped up and started packing my lunches and treating me to nice breakfasts in bed!”

Breakfast in bed does sound really nice, I think to myself, especially if she does it topless….

(What the fuck is wrong with you? my mind immediately screams.)

I shake my head and try to get rid of the intrusive fantasy. Ever since I’d done . . . the thing . . . I’ve been plagued with urges. Normal urges, I’ve tried to convince myself, because I’m a grown, teen boy who has yet to kiss a girl, and I’ve not yet got to experience any of the normal, sexy, fumbling stuff that people my age get up to (all because my mom moved me away from my almost-girlfriend, who is now probably dating a football star or surfer bro in our hometown in California).

Before I can start to miss that girl, Mr. Brenner nudges me and says, “Just be careful with it, yeah? My daughter’s getting a little OCD with keeping everything spotless. I might’ve drilled it into her head too much, by having her repeatedly clean….”

He trails off and mumbles something about being in one of his fits of frustration, making her nearly scrub the porcelain off the toilet.

“The power can get to you, is all,” he finishes softly, adjusting his glasses with a cough. “So, try to give her breaks, yeah? And be careful not to ask her to do the same thing, too often.”

“Okay,” I agree.

He smiles proudly at me, his face flashing with brief affection. “Do you need a ride home today, son?”

“Nah, but thank you—she got her car fixed over the weekend, and I’ve asked her to stop taking mine.”

He nods like he’d expected that answer and then waves me off as I turn to leave. Man, how ashamed he’d probably be if he knew what I’d really done with his script. The thought plagues me as his cheerful face watches me leave his office and classroom, but soon I’m alone in my car, and alone with my thoughts—and those thoughts all wonder what my mom’s up to right now. And if she’s come home from work yet….

After stopping to stall at the mall (because food court pizza, and checking out the new selection of video games, sounded like a better idea than hoping my mom had gotten off of work early), I find Muscle-Mike in the living room when I get home.

“Uh, hi,” I say awkwardly, passing quickly through to drop my backpack off in my room.

“Hey kiddo,” he calls after me. “You wanna come on a run with me and your ma today?”

I really don’t, but thankfully I’m saved from telling him so when my mom’s voice pipes up, “No! We’re doing yoga here today—and I don’t want Chris getting in the way.”

Bitch, I think grumpily, because why the hell would I get in the way? I usually stay in my room unless I need to use the bathroom or grab food or something. There’s nothing for me out in the living room—except maybe the couch and TV, but I have a perfectly good computer to keep me occupied. It has enough games on it and there’s enough shit on the internet to watch. I’ll be fine.

“Sorry,” I hear Mike mumble, and for a moment I feel bad for the big lug—but then a niggling thought crosses my mind that he’s probably fucking my mom, and I kind of want him to keel over dead on the spot.

What the hell? Why should I care about that?

(Because you want her big, jiggly tits all to yourself, a greedy little voice tells me.)

“Fuck off,” I whisper to myself, and then I boot up my computer to blow off some steam by playing my favorite shooter (where I absolutely stomp noobs online).

I’m lost in the game for a long while before I notice a strange sound coming from the living room. Is that moaning? All of my muscles go stiff as I freeze in my seat. They can’t really be doing shit out in the living room, can they? Not only would that be incredibly rude, but they know I’m right fucking here and can just walk out on them. My mom might be a narcissist, but she’s never thrown any of her romantic relationships in my face (if anything, she’s likely tried to come off as saintlier than she really is—always pretending she doesn’t date or need a man in her life).

A low, feminine groan reaches my ears and my body jolts straight up. Something is definitely going on out there. Anger flashes through me and I’m striding to peer out my door when I hear Mike say, “Yeah, you definitely pulled something.”

He’s massaging her upper leg, right under the rounded curve of her left asscheek as she lies prone on the floor. I watch his big, veiny hands knead her, apparently injured, hamstring, and frown as she whimpers. Part of me feels bad for her, and part of me feels like she kind of deserves it for being so mean to me earlier, but most of me is distracted by how her black yoga pants cling to her legs and ass, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. I imagine Mike lifting one of his hands to smack her ample butt, making it jiggle enticingly before he pulls down the tight fabric of her leggings to expose her smooth, white flesh.

Stop it, I tell myself, knowing I should go back to my room and quit watching them, but not quite able to make myself.

Mike looks up at me, and my heart leaps into my throat as his dark eyes narrow. Run idiot, my mind tells me—but then he smiles and says, “Don’t worry, she’s fine. It’s not a bad strain. It’ll take a few days to a week to heal, at most….”

“O-oh,” I stammer, “I mean good. You’ll uh, help her with it, I’m sure….”

He gets a weird look on his face and frowns, but before he can say anything my mom’s blonde head lifts up and she glares at me.

“I told you not to get in the way, Chris,” she hisses. “Do you want Mike to massage you, too, or something?”

I throw my hands up in the air, huffing, and storm off into my room, slamming the door behind me.

“For fuck’s sake!” my mom shouts.

I’m definitely going to get my revenge on her once Muscle-Mike leaves. She’ll be cooking and cleaning all night, even if her stupid hamstring hurts and she’s all sore tomorrow. Maybe I’ll even make her stay on her hands and knees in front of the sofa, so I can rest my feet on her as I watch TV.

Too far, I think guiltily—knowing my slight fetish for human furniture is derived from looking at too much porn on the internet. Definitely don’t want to cross a boundary like that….

My mind immediately pops up a snide thought: Because that’s so much worse than groping her and getting off while doing it?

I groan at myself and focus on getting back into my game, soon distracted by my teammates giving me shit because my inactivity got us all killed, and then got me kicked from the server. It doesn’t take long for me to get sucked into a string of new matches, and before I know it, hours have swept by, and Muscle-Mike has gone home.

“Chris!” my mom screams, making me jolt in my computer chair as her piercing voice goes straight into my brain, even though I’m wearing headphones. “Chris—get out here at once!”

“What the hell, mom?” I yell back, exiting my game and then slamming my computer chair against my desk as I twist sharply to exit it.

“I’m in pain, dearest,” my mom says dramatically, after I’ve stomped out of my room to confront her. She’s lounging on the couch with a large icepack under her left buttcheek and upper thigh, a bottle of empty wine beside her, tipped over on the floor. Little purple droplets have stained the white carpet. “And I’m out of wine!”

She holds up an empty wineglass to show me, frowning with a childish pout.

“Well, what the hell am I supposed to do about it?”

Her blue eyes gleam at me. “Can you be a dear and run over to the neighbors to see if they have any?”

“You can’t be serious,” I mutter, scrubbing at my face with my hands. “You’re clearly already tipsy enough. Why don’t you just go to bed?”

“I want more wine!” she yells at me. “Don’t try to control me!”

The word control triggers something in my brain, and I instantly snap three times at her, hissing, “You’ve had enough alcohol, mom—you don’t want anymore! You want to please your son and apologize for how badly you treat him!”

Her face goes blank and she stares at me, her already glassy eyes going completely unfocused. It looks like she’s in a trance, and a burst of heady power fills me.

“Apologize to me,” I repeat.

“I’m sorry, son,” she murmurs.

It doesn’t feel that great hearing it when I know I’m making her say it, but it does feel really good to stop her tantrum—and get out of begging the neighbors for alcohol. I stare silently at her for a moment, trying to think up what I should make her do next; she looks flushed and sweaty, her blonde hair clinging in ringlets to her neck and face, her cheeks pink from drinking, and her toned body slack against the red cushions of the sofa.

Don’t think about how easy it would be to just go over there and do whatever to her….

I shake my head of the perverse urge to touch my mother while she’s limp, drunk, and vulnerable. I should probably just make her rest, but she owes me for being a bitch. I’ve already eaten, so it seems dumb to make her cook, and the house is already spotless from having her clean it all weekend—except for her yoga mat and the bottle of wine that’s staining the floor.

Really, that only leaves my weird idea of making her into my footstool.

Ah, what the hell, I think to myself flippantly, and then before I can stop myself, I say, “Mom, get back on the yoga mat.”

It happens to be placed in just the right spot, a few feet away from the couch and at the right angle, like where a footstool would sit. My pulse skyrockets as she slides down onto the floor, a little smile ghosting her lips, and her curvy ass popping up in the air as she drunkenly crawls to the black mat.

Oh fuck, she looks good. My erection springs to life as her hips and breasts sway with her clumsy movements, but I try my best to ignore it as I go to search for the remote control in the couch cushions. It doesn’t take me long to find it, but when I turn around, one of my mom’s large boobs has popped out the front of her tight, white sport’s shirt. I gape at it, instantly honed in on the way her large, pink areola drags against the spongy mat. She doesn’t even seem to notice, and a moment later, she flops down, crushing her tit under her.

A strange sound escapes her, something between a groan and a hiss, but she doesn’t try to fix it, merely gazing blankly past me, her eyelids droopy, with both arms flat on the carpet, reached out to the sides.

“On your hands and knees, now, mom,” I whisper, despite knowing that I should definitely stop before I get too carried away.

I’ve probably gotten enough revenge on her since I’ve been making her crawl around with an injured hamstring, and she just landed pretty hard on her tit. Still, I really want to demean her a little more—even if she doesn’t realize it or remember it later, I will, and that’s all that matters in the moment.

Maybe people might accuse me of being a bit of a narcissist, like her . . . maybe the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.

Oh well.

My breath catches as she pushes herself into position, her other breast popping out to join the heavy one pushing down the front of her shirt. Fuck she looks hot. I don’t even try to deny it to myself, because she’s on her knees and elbows, her round ass sticking out (and begging to be smacked) while her tits hang down like sexy fuck-udders. I nearly want to pull her nipples like teats, just to see if I can get any milk to come out.

Pervert, my mind whispers, but I ignore it and take a seat on the couch, pulling off my socks and shoes so that I can put my bare feet on her arched and waiting back.

“Thank you for helping me rest my feet,” I say to her as I rub one heel gently against the smooth, bare skin of her lower back, and the other against the soft fabric of her short, sport’s tank.

“Of course, son,” she mumbles, her eyes fluttering closed, and her juicy tits swaying as she tries to drunkenly hold herself still.

Muscle-Mike probably loves it when she wears slutty little gym clothes like this, I think to myself, imagining the way he must put his hands on her taut midriff, the little dips of her exposed back, and her tanned shoulders.

He probably grips those places pretty hard as he fucks her, too, I grumble internally to myself.

Really, she deserves to be used a little by me. I’m the man of the house, after all, and she’s treating me like a bratty child while servicing some douche-bag that she has to pay. (Or maybe that’s how she pays, I consider briefly, even though she always complains about money and how much it costs to keep a personal trainer.)

One of our recent fights flitters through my mind; my mom had screamed, ‘I should kick you out if you aren’t going to help with rent!’ and I had asked her what money she expected me to pull out of my ass, seeing as I’m still finishing up high school and don’t have a job.

I give her a little kick, just thumping my foot down on her butt, as I remember how badly she’d hurt my feelings and made me feel like a worthless leech. Her own son—barely eighteen—and yet somehow upon turning into a legal adult, I was miraculously supposed to start providing support so that she’s able to get her nails done and get her tan on at the spa (not to mention whatever Muscle-Mike might cost).

So yeah, I shouldn’t feel that bad for using her as a footstool, I console myself as I turn on the TV. Not with as bitchy and mean as she can get….

But she doesn’t seem very bitchy or mean with her tits out in such a submissive position. Part of me knows I’m getting a sick thrill out of having such control over her, and part of me realizes that this thrill is addicting. I could use her tear-dropped shaped tits as Hacky Sacks right now if I wanted to. I could ask her to lick my feet and suck my toes. I could make her do anything . . . anything in the name of ‘helping’ me.

My cock twitches against my leg, reminding me that it’s still trapped and interested in what’s going on. The TV drones on, but I don’t even notice whether I’ve turned on the sports channel or the news or a cooking show. It’s all white noise as I gaze at my sexy mother.

I can see a little strand of drool falling from her open mouth as she tries to stay awake and in position. She’s barely hanging on to consciousness, and I watch her blonde head bob, the wine making her sleepy and weak. It’d be so easy to push her over with one gentle kick. It’d be so easy to take advantage of her lying helplessly on the floor. It’d be so easy to make her ‘help’ me with my persistent erection, rubbing it all over her until it drenched her in my cum.

The heat of her body radiates against my bare feet and ankles. She’s so very close to me, and her tits call to me like circus balloons tempting a small child. Her lips look so plump and wet—and I’d only have to make her shift a little bit, and then a little bit more, and then her huge breasts and face would be in my lap and those lips could wrap around my aching cock….

“Stop,” I say out loud, my hand gripping the remote so hard that the plastic cracks.

My mom blinks groggily and then looks at me in confusion, making me blurt out something before I can think it through, “Pull down your yoga pants—they look uncomfortable.”

Take it back, my mind tells me firmly. Don’t do this. You’ve gone far enough!

I just want to see, I tell myself, my teeth clenching together hard. Just want to see what Mike probably gets to have . . . just want to see real life ass, and maybe a glimpse of pussy, to compare it to what I’ve seen in porn….

She sits up, her boobs bouncing as she shifts her hands to yank at the hem of her pants. They come down over her ass slowly, the fabric catching and dragging on the ample, white skin. For a moment I wonder why it’s not tanned, but then I realize she must wear full-underwear when she gets in the tanning booth (like she does with her swim top on the beach), and right now she’s wearing absolutely-fucking-nothing under her pants—like a wicked, little slut.

My breath catches in my throat. The remote falls from my grip as my mind spins seductive thoughts: it’s almost like she wants it—it’s almost like she wants everyone to see her fuckhole….

I can’t actually see her pussy though, not with her butt pressing into her heels and hiding it at this angle. Instead, I notice her sexy, soft looking feet—her toenails painted an alluring red—and then I see the long strand of drool hit one of her bare tits, gleaming as it slides down to coat her left nipple. Her glazed eyes blink slowly, and when she looks down at the wetness I imagine her lifting up her tit to lick the lost saliva off.

One of my hands flies to the bulge in my jeans as a burst of excited pre-cum escapes me. God, I want to watch her suck her own tits—and I really want her to spit all over them until they shine. I nearly forget all about her pussy, her tits and feet and mouth all calling to me, but then I close my eyes and breathe in deep, reminding myself not to get carried away in all of this.

Relax idiot, I tell myself.

But there’s something inside me that just won’t give in. My traitorous mouth speaks as though I’m not in charge of it, and before I know it, I’ve just given her another sinful command: “Mom, get back on your hands and knees and turn to face the TV.”

Oh God, what am I doing? Keep your eyes closed and take it back!

I listen to the sound of her hands and knees rustle through the carpet, and can’t stop myself from stroking my cock through my jeans in anticipation. Is her pussy going to be plump, or thin lipped? Will the opening be a tiny slit or a big gaping hole? I decide it doesn’t matter as my eyes fly open to take in her secrets, and my heart pounds red behind my eyes as I get an eyeful of curly blonde pubes, just barely covering a glistening pink fuckhole.

Something inside me lurches hard, and it’s not even quite a thought, just pure desire burning through me as I stare at her most intimate and pleasure-giving parts.

It’s hairier than I thought it would be, especially with all the smooth-pussies in porn, but I don’t care and kind of like that it’s different, since it makes it seem that much more real. Real enough that I could slide down on the floor with her. Real enough that I could touch it, or taste it, if I wanted to. Real enough that I could sink my twitching cock into her special, tight and tender hole—one that is mostly closed, with rose-petal like skin around it, and very, very pink.

“Pull up your pants,” I choke out.

Because I know if I don’t have her cover herself, I’m definitely going to touch her there . . . and if I touch her there, I’m definitely going to fuck her. And I can’t do that—even if it’s there, and ready, and….

God what the hell is wrong with me? I shouldn’t be looking at my mom like this at all, much less contemplating losing my virginity to her.

I watch as she hikes the thin, black fabric back over her curvy ass and groan as a little wet spot appears where her pussy rests. I can still see all the special folds, and I still want to touch it—with my fingers, with my mouth, with my tongue—but I know once I get off everything will go back to normal.

I won’t want to do such deprave things after I cum, I’m certain, and I’ll be able to think clearly again, and then I’ll put all of this behind me—like I’d done before with the kitchen event.

Just masturbate it out, I tell myself, staring at the seductive curve of my mom’s ass and the special dips that pretty much show her open, unprotected holes. How warm and tight they both might feel—Ah, stop thinking like that….

I free my cock and begin to stroke it, pre-cum dribbling all down my hand as I try not to think about how much I want to pin her down to the living room floor and bang the shit out of her.

She wouldn’t even know or remember, my mind insists, but I screw my eyes shut and stroke myself faster, realizing that even doing this is completely wrong.

But at least I’m not touching her.

I stiffen as I hear a loud thump, my eyes flying open. My mom whimpers from where she just face-planted into the floor, her ass bulging out towards me obscenely, and her toes flexing in pain.

“Mom?” I ask, my hand slowing on my cock.

She doesn’t answer me with words, merely moaning weakly. Shit. She’s probably too drunk to just sit there doing nothing while I masturbate to her.

Maybe it’d be better to make her come rest near me…. my mind whispers insistently.

I know that I should definitely call this whole thing off now, and I know I’m toeing a dangerous line, but I can’t help it with my erection throbbing in my hand and I can’t fight against the horny-blur of my mind. Not with her soft feet and ass in my face. Not with her tits out, making round prints in the carpet. And not with her little breathy noises—most certainly indicating her discomfort, but sounding a lot like womanly pleasure….

I snap my fingers three times, realizing distantly that I hadn’t needed to except for the first time I gave her a command, but this ask seems like a much bigger deal, and then I say, “Mom, come over here and rest your head in my lap.”

I nearly expect her not to do anything but fall asleep on the floor, but then—Oh fuck, she’s crawling again. Right. Over….

My back straightens against the back of the couch, my eyes widening as my sexy mother’s tits and hips sashay back and forth as she scoot-crawls to me. What the hell was I thinking asking her to do this? But before I can tell her to stop, her flushed face is pushing against my jean covered thighs, while her breasts brush the front of my knees.

“So sleepy,” she murmurs, yawning before her mouth goes slack and makes a warm drool spot on my jeans.

A warm wave of her breath ghosts across my dripping cock, and I squeeze it tightly as everything in me screams that I should put it in her wet, open mouth.

No, I tell myself firmly—and then a warm rush of pride takes hold of me, because no one else would have such self-control in this situation. So surely, I deserve something for being so strong. (Or at least that’s what my horny-brain insists.)

“Raise up and put your breasts here,” I murmur, tapping near her face. “They have to hurt being smashed like that….”

I’ll just look at them and her flushed face as I jerk off—and then I might paint her cheeks, lips, and slender neck with my cum. Heat floods my brain as she shifts to obey me, her warm breasts heavy against the tops of my knees. My left hand reaches to stroke her soft, blonde hair, then clutches it to hold her lolling head in place, while my right hand death-grips my cock and begins to pump it in feverishly fast strokes. I should make her lick up my mess once I douse her with my sperm. I should make her open her mouth, then target her pink tongue and the back of her throat as I cum. I should coat every inch of her bitchy face, and watch as it drips down to splatter across her massive rack.

Bliss hits me like a truck and everything goes out of focus, except the pulsing gush of my orgasm ripping through me. I curse loudly as my load sprays my mom in her drowsy face—thick, white ropes splashing across her nose, her chin, and even landing across her front teeth as she gasps. A low groan escapes me as I watch droplets of sperm fall into her open mouth. Can she taste it? Is she even registering what’s happening at all?

A loud knock on the door brings my high crashing down. The last of my cum dribbles out my cockhole, and in my panic I force her face forward, pushing my cockhead in her open mouth so that it leaks across her tongue.

“Swallow all of it,” I say, as I quickly use my fingers to scoop the mess I’ve made on her face off and into her mouth.

I don’t even have time to enjoy the depravity of making her suckle on my sperm-coated fingers. Instead, a nauseous pit has opened up inside my gut, and the knocking on the door has turned into pounding.

“Chrissy!” I hear a man yell, and then the doorbell starts to ring, blaring down the hall. “I’m here!”

What the fuck—is that Muscle-Mike? I’m almost certain it’s his voice, and then I hear him fumbling with the doorknob, and a terrifying realization lances through me: he has a spare key.

“Fuck!” I gasp, rubbing the rest of the sticky wetness as best as I can into her skin and then hissing, “Pull your top up and get on the couch. Pretend to be asleep!”

I jump up as she clumsily listens, pulling my dick back through the hole of my boxers and fastening up my jeans. The front door creaks open and I hear Mike call out, “I’m coming in. You there? I brought your damn pills.”

“Mom’s asleep,” I call softly back, rushing to him before he can come through the short hall into the living room. “She drank too much,” I say as soon as I block him off in the hallway, even though his body towers over mine. “Please don’t wake her.”

“Sorry kid,” he mumbles with a sigh. “She texted me that if I didn’t come by with some pain meds that she’d fire me for negligence. It really wasn’t my fault she hurt herself. She didn’t want to warm up correctly and—”

“It’s cool,” I interrupt him, just wishing he’d shut up and leave. I don’t like standing this near to him—where I can smell the musky scent of his sweat and the bite of his cologne. “She doesn’t need the pills, but I’ll tell her you stopped by like a good trainer or boyfriend or whatever….”

I don’t know why I let the last bitter thought escape me, but I’m surprised when Mike begins to laugh, his dark eyes wide. “We’re not involved like that, kiddo.”

I’m not quite sure I believe him, but with the way he’s looking at me, I’m compelled to say, “Eh, okay.”

“Seriously . . . you’re much more my type.” He winks at me and grins, and I flinch away from him when he lifts his paw of a hand to thump my shoulder. “If you’re ever interested, lemme know….”

“Yeah, no thanks,” I say, but a smile creeps across my face at the knowledge that this dude would rather bang me than my mom, and I can’t help but tease him, “I think I could do a lot better than you if I were gay.”

He rolls his eyes but smiles anyway, shoving the pill bottle into my hand. “I’m leaving these with you. If I’m fired tomorrow, I’m going to be pissed—so give them to her or dump them down the toilet in front of her. Whatever’s clever.”

“Sure, Mike,” I say, taking them and then waving him off. “Bye.”

“Later, kid.”

I’m so relieved when he leaves—and so relieved that I didn’t get caught—that I cheerfully write my mom a note: ‘Mike came by with these’, before I stuff the pill bottle and piece of paper into the crook of her folded arm; her sleeping face rests on top of one of her hands as she dozes on the couch.

I can’t believe I jumped to conclusions about her relationship with her personal trainer. Especially because it drove me to do things I might not otherwise have done. I’m so blissed out by the new knowledge of Muscle-Mike’s sexuality that I forget to feel bad about everything that just happened, laughing to myself as I picture my mom flirting with the dumb lug and him just wrinkling his nose at her.

The couch stuff is for tomorrow me to worry about, I decide as I leave my mom out in the living room—her wineglass and toppled over bottle enough to explain to her why she’ll not wake up in her bed. I head to my own room to sleep, completely forgetting about the funny word I need to use to release my mom from her hypnotized state. Mr. Brenner never said what leaving them in a trance does, and I don’t even think about it as my happy thoughts of ‘Mike’s gay’ turn into pleasant dreams where every man in the world rejects my mom, because she doesn’t need anyone else—anyone but me.