The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Have you ever laid down and closed your eyes, just for a second, and then opened them to realize several hours have passed? That’s how my night went after Red knocked my astral whatever back into my body.

At least, I think that’s what happened. Maybe it was just a freaky dream, like my brain is refusing to deal with the fact that she left with some unfinished business.

As if to answer my question, I feel a tingle run up the length of my morning wood, as though the tip of a tongue were delicately tracing a path up the bottom of the shaft, then gently swirling around the head.

Curious, I try to feel around for that pink static, trying to sense any trace of Red so that, if nothing else, I can tell her, “Not now...”

It takes a little while of me staring at the ceiling tiles, trying my best to focus, but I eventually feel something... what did she call it? The cable, connecting us over a profoundly long distance—but that isn’t where the sensation is coming from. It’s just sitting there, dormant, waiting for Red to ring me up for another check-in.

I quietly lift my head and see the mischievous eyes of the girl who smuggled a Wishmaster video in an Aladdin case for overnight sit because

I’d told her the previous weekend that genies were wusses.

Jen feels me stir and lifts herself from my erection to gently press her finger to her lips, shushing me as she silently wraps her mouth around the bell of my dick and gingerly gets back to work.

I glance over to Gwen to see her laying with her back to us, curled up with a plain-looking beige dress pulled over her as covers, seemingly blissfully unaware.

But she’s a little too still. She should be taking deep, relaxed breaths if she’s asleep. Instead, I can barely see her body move at all.

She’s like a deer in the headlights, desperately hoping that staying still will somehow make her invisible. Which, to her credit, it would if I hadn’t seen her gift for stealth in the river.

I open my mind back up a little, relaxing something that had been tensed since I dropped that crazy nun in the woods, and sure enough, I can feel that sense of fear and shame weighing down on pleasure. This time, there’s a new element—a profound guilt about her actions, and a bubbling self-loathing for having to risk her new home by giving in to this filthy compulsion. (Her brain’s words, not mine.)

And so we reach a crossroads.

Do I straight-up call Gwen out, and risk traumatizing the poor girl? It’s the most direct solution, but I don’t know if I’d be able to talk her down out of the inevitable spiral of shame and guilt. I don’t want to traumatize the poor thing.

Do I take the cue from the old porn movies I used to watch? Smack her on the ass and deliver some cheesy line like, “The more the merrier”? As fun as those movies were, they weren’t exactly renowned for their realism, and given how prudish her environment had been up until now, I think it would be a miracle if it didn’t make her run screaming to the nearest pocket of abusive fundamentalists.

Do I just leave her be? Let her roil in that shame and guilt and self-loathing until she becomes more comfortable with the idea that sex isn’t some unforgivable sin? That’s definitely the easiest option, but I don’t know how long we’re going to be sleeping together. There are dozens of empty houses around here—and way more houses in the town than there were survivors before the angels and their followers were cleared out. It’s just a matter of time before Gwen has her own little closet in which to safely lock away all her shame and guilt.

Maybe I can snip away her self-doubt. It wouldn’t be changing anything major, like I was trying to do with the nun. Just some minor little alteration to make her feel comfortable with her body and her desires. What was it Red said last night? The mind is a river. It has to flow. Would cutting away her self-doubt block something essential? Maybe not, but I’m definitely not willing to take the risk.

My train of thought takes a brief stop at Sensation Station, and I feel a shiver roll throughout my entire body. Jen’s tongue dances on my frenulum, cranking the generator that’s zapping pleasure through my limbs, making me quake with sensation as I lose control for what must be a solid ten seconds. Jen flirts with the edge of orgasm for as long as she dares, and then goes back to softly, gently sucking on the tip.

That’s it! I don’t need to force Gwen to change. I just need to help her overcome. I glance over to see that her legs are parted a little more and, while her shoulders and elbows are perfectly still, the warm satisfaction radiating through her mind from beneath all the shame and fear tells me that her fingers are still hard at work.

“Yes,” I whisper, barely audibly, directing the words to the pretty blonde gently servicing me, but giving the suggestion to the young woman silently masturbating to my right. “That’s so good.”

The warmth bubbles in her as she hears my words, and I think I see her elbow twitch a little—not much for most people, but it must be a massive loss of control for her. I can see a pang of realization and self-consciousness flood into her mind for a second before melting into the heat of the moment.

“That feels so nice,” I continue to whisper, planting my words in the fertile ground of Gwen’s lust-addled mind. “So right. Even with someone right there.”

Jen’s eyes flash up at me with equal parts excitement and concern.

“Especially with someone right there,” I follow, smiling down at Jen.

I feel the hum of a gentle moan around my dick as Jen begins to suck a little harder, her head bobbing a little lower and making a slick sound as she loses herself in the moment.

I knew that line would be like Catnip to Jen, but I’m surprised to feel that the suggestion is dynamite in Gwen’s mind, blasting a crater in her fears and inhibitions, letting a flood of boiling lust crash over her shame and self-loathing. Her mind lets out a passionate roar as flaming satisfaction rips through her entire body, burning all her fear and doubt as fuel as it explodes and consumes her entirely, body and soul.

In the real world, this manifests as an adorable little squeak as she tenses up her body.

Jen stops mid-stroke, holding the end of my dick in her mouth as her eyes snap over to our new friend.

Gwen doesn’t make another sound, but her tense muscles begin to shake a little as she hears the sounds of Jen’s sucking stop. She knows she’s caught, and she’s certain that we’re staring at her, watching her lose control—but the fire is too hot, and this mortifying revelation becomes kindling within an already-raging inferno.

I look down at Jen as she slowly slides her lips off me, giving my underside one final lick as she rises and gives me a mischievous smile.

I smile back at her, but I say nothing. Gwen doesn’t fully trust me (and with good reason—her first real interaction with me was watching me melt an old lady with my brain), but she looks up to Jen as a hero. It kind of reminds me of how I saw Jen when I was a kid. If anyone can talk Gwen off the ledge of self-loathing, it’s her.

“Oh wow,” Jen says at full volume. “That looked like a fun one.”

Gwen finally comes down off her cloud, and the mortification finally sets in. She freezes in place, awaiting judgment.

Jen crawls up off my spit-soaked hard-on and climbs back into her place between Gwen and I, sitting cross-legged next to the terrified young woman.

Jen gently places her hand on Gwen’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” I hear her tell our new friend in a hushed voice. “There’s nothing wrong with getting a little excited. Or curious. If anything, it’s probably my bad for getting a little frisky right next to you.”

At this, Gwen bolts up, looking into Jen’s eyes with an unexpected desperation and says, “It’s not your fault! It’s not. It’s... I’m intruding here. Plus I was... I was listening... and... I couldn’t...”

Jen leans forward and wraps her arms around our little river sprite, giving her a warm hug and whispering, “It’s nobody’s fault. It can’t be, because nothing wrong happened.”

Through Gwen’s mind, I throw a little extra warmth into the hug to help calm her mind, but I’m pretty sure it’s unnecessary.

“I’m sorry,” Gwen mutters as her eyes begin to mist. “I’m so sorry. I’m... I’m awful. I can’t help myself.”

“Shhh,” Jen says. rocking a little. “Hey, do you want to know a little secret?”

Gwen pulls away. “What?” she asks with an adorable little sniffle.

“I did the exact same thing the first time I saw you.”

“You mean... at the river...”

Jen nods. “We saw you while you were enjoying yourself, and we didn’t want to interrupt. And... well, watching such a beautiful girl do such a beautiful thing... we couldn’t help ourselves.”

Speak for yourself, I almost add, but I manage to bite my tongue.

Gwen glances nervously towards me, and suddenly I’m very aware of my still-exposed glistening erection. “Really?”

“Well,” Jen says, trailing off a bit while she searches for the right words. “Sort of. We weren’t touching ourselves, we were touching each other.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, throwing my ugly sweatpants over my lap. “I... I’m really sorry, and I hope you don’t mind. We just kind of... got caught up in the moment.”

Jen shoots me a look when I say “sorry”, and I instantly realize that I’ve just apologized for the exact same thing she’s trying to convince Gwen is nothing to be sorry for.

Thankfully, I’m still a scary monster who can’t be trusted, so my slip-up does nothing to undermine Jen’s efforts.

“Of course there’s a time and place for masturbation,” Jen continues, “but when you’re alone, or when you’re with someone you trust, then there’s absolutely nothing wrong with it.”

I chime in, “Especially if that ‘someone you trust’ has decided to get frisky right next to you. In that case, it would be rude not to!”

Thankfully Gwen giggles a little, and I feel a tiny bit of distrust peel off of me. Not a lot, mind you, but it’s a start.

“So what you were doing...” Gwen begins before trailing off, her delicate skin developing a slight blush.

Jen nods. “I was making him feel good.” She thinks for a moment, and decides to add, “...because it makes me feel good.”

Gwen nods slowly. “Bunk Two and Bunk Six were caught doing that to each other. Our watchers said that it was the worst kind of bad thing, and...” she goes silent, her blush sinking into sadness.

“The people who kept you were the bad ones,” Jen says, anger seeping through her voice. “Don’t you ever forget that.”

Gwen’s eyes drift to some distant memory.

“What did they have you do?” I ask, quickly adding, “day-to-day, I mean.”

Gwen is eager to jump on the topic—anything to stop her from thinking about the empty bunks. “We had daily chores,” she says, “cleaning and preparing meals for the clergy. Every day two of us were chosen to serve the priests—cleaning their rooms, washing their clothes, helping with the sermons—but most of the time it was just chores all day, lectures and discipline in the evening, and they’d take us to bathe in the stream under the cover of night.”

“So these watchers weren’t priests?” I ask.

Gwen shrugs. “Some of them called themselves Pastor, but they definitely weren’t priests. I don’t think any of them really liked being in charge of us—Pastor Bob seemed to be nice to us at the start, but he disappeared a long time ago.”

Jen nods. “Do you remember where you came from?” she asks. “Your house? Your neighbourhood? Your parents?”

A deep breath fills Gwen’s lungs, and then slowly creeps out. I can tell she’s trying to remember, but it all comes at her in abstracts—a warm bed, a unicorn poster, someone using silly voices to read bedtime stories... but all the specifics have been smeared by time and abuse. No faces. No names. Not even the voices she remembers feeling so fondly about.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “I can’t remember a lot of my past, either. I wasn’t taken when I was a kid, but I had something horrible inside my head, stealing things it thought gave me strength and purpose. My childhood, my family, my name...”

Jen gives me a look of pity, and I quickly wave her off.

I continue, “Even though I don’t remember any of that stuff, it’s all still a part of me. Forgetting my parents’ faces didn’t change who I was. I don’t have to remember what they looked like to carry their kindness with me.”

I know Jen doesn’t go for the wounded-puppy thing, but I can see her eyes quickly dart down to my softening loosely-covered member before flashing a quick smile and turning back to Gwen.

“Really?” Gwen asks, her voice coming from a time before the end, and from a place of innocent hope.

I smile. “Ask Jen—she actually used to babysit for me in the before-times.”

Jen chuckles and nods. “He’s got the same kindness and... err... enthusiasm as he did when he was a kid. But he’s also grown into quite the man.”

“Are you really older than him?” Gwen says, blissfully ignorant of the social more she’s violating.

“Not by much,” I quickly snap. “Just a tiny bit. It’s a big deal when you’re a kid, but it’s basically nothing now that we’re grown-up.”

Gwen nods slowly, and Jen doesn’t look like she’s about to deck me, so I figure both are satisfied with my answer.

“One other thing before we get up,” Jen says. “You don’t need to be so damn sneaky about it anymore.”

I smile. “Yeah,” I add, “don’t feel like you have to play it up or anything, but the first time you allow yourself to completely let go is a game-changer.”

Breakfast, like dinner, is a tin of canned beans and some smoked rabbit jerky I’d kept in the back room of the shop in case I locked myself out of my apartment. (Turns out that eldritch brain mold doesn’t know how to use a buzzer.) We polish off most of my stash while hashing out the plan for the day: check the snares I have set up in the woodlot, then trek down through the suburbs I’ve picked clean to see if we can scrounge anything in the booneys where I didn’t dare to go. The fields on the edge of town used to be lousy with cherubs, so the houses down there are likely still fully-stocked.

Jen takes the liberty to dress us, and the fact that she gives me cargo shorts with a zipper lets me know that she isn’t planning on any funny business. Normally I’d be disappointed, but given that a day spent fucking would mean a night spent starving, I’m willing to take the blueballs.

Jen picks a similar pair of shorts for Gwen and herself—clever, considering the fact that we’re going to be scavenging—and picks a sports bra and a tight blue tank top for herself (which I take as a sign that her body is healing nicely).

Gwen is thrilled when Jen lets her choose her own top from the stash of forbidden garments in the back, and she comes out wearing a bright red men’s polo shirt. Not risqué by any old-world stretch of the imagination, but sentinels thought bright clothing was a sign of vanity, and red clothing a sign of lust—not to mention girls wearing boy’s clothing was considered unnatural and deviant—so it’s likely the riskiest shirt in the entire shop.

When we reach the woods, I’m disappointed to find that every goddamn one of the snares are empty. One bloodied wire tells me that I did catch something, but a fox must have gotten it. Or maybe another survivor?

“Aww,” I hear Gwen say as she sees me hold up the bloody wire. “That’s too bad.”

“Sorry to break it to you, but you’re aww-ing what you had for breakfast,” Jen tells her.

Gwen gives her a look. “What? No. Cleaning game in the kitchens was one of my chores. I’m just saying it’s sad that we lost it. Rabbit pelts are super useful.”

I try not to think about how many winter coats worth of pelts I ruined and threw away. That TV survival guy showed me how to make a snare, but the pee-drinking bastard didn’t mention anything about cleaning and drying pelts. “No big deal,” I say. “I’m sure we’ll get lucky in the outskirts.”

We leave the forest, and the girls chatter away as I walk ahead of them. I have no way to meaningfully contribute to basically anything they talk about, but I’m happy to listen in as they talk.

What colour would go best with Gwen’s skin tone? Red is a solid choice, because she’s got fair skin with a little pinch of olive to it, but she could easily pull off a bright blue or a light green. Hell, it might be bold, but a slinky dark chocolate number would look A-MA-ZING on her. Jen couldn’t possibly pull off that bright red because she’s way too waspy (no clue what that means)—a red shirt would make her look like a tomato. Oh, has Gwen ever dyed her hair? Jen would just DIE if she saw Gwen’s long beautiful black hair with just, like, one streak of platinum highlight, right at the front. Hey, did Gwen have access to any music growing up? No, not the choir—like, records or CDs. Really? Oh Jen’s GOD! Jen has GOT to find a music player and a couple batteries, because she’s going to blow Gwen’s sheltered little MIND with some of the old before-times music. Hey, where did Gwen learn to pick the locks on her little schlick-shield? Because that’s some masturbation-dedication to become a friggin’ locksmith just to flick the bean now and then...

I stop in place and raise my hand, and the girls fall silent.

I can feel something. Fear. Desperation. Anger. Frustration. And it’s loud. Almost so loud that I can’t feel a quivering passivity—a whole second mind, lost in its shadow.

“Did you hear that?” I whisper.

The girls look at each other and shake their heads. Of course they didn’t—there was no actual sound—but I can’t very well tell them I feel a stranger’s unfamiliar thoughts.

“It’s coming from there,” I say, pointing to a particularly nice looking two-storey red-brick house. “Survivors, maybe?”

Gwen looks to Jen nervously, but Jen gives her a reassuring smile. “He’s got this,” she whispers so quietly that I have to jump into Gwen’s thoughts to hear it.

“Stay back,” I say. “If they’re scavenging, then they’re probably alone and afraid.”

As we approach the house, we start to hear crashes—things being thrown around inside as the dominant mind is filled with almost tearful frustration. Whoever it is, they’re so hungry that they’re irrationally lashing out, thrusting blame on everything in sight.

I feel a sharp barb of pain punctuate the passive mind, and I realize that something isn’t right.

I rush ahead of the girls and through the door, nearly tripping over a bag of golf clubs leaning against the doorway. I stop in my tracks as I lock eyes with the frustrated woman.

She’s got pale skin and long dark hair that’s falling out of a loose ponytail, and her eyes are red and puffy, filled with tears of frustration. As her anger levels out, I can start to feel the sea of desperation she was trying so hard to escape.

My eyes follow the black rope in her hand. It’s flat and synthetic looking, and it isn’t until I see the collar attached to it—and the person on the other end—that I realize it’s a leash.

The person on the leash appears to be a man, but his features are unusually soft. He’s wearing a robe very similar to Gwen’s dress, and has a trickle of blood trailing down the side of his throat.

That must be a training collar—the kind with prongs on the inside to stop dogs from disobeying their owner.

The woman follows my gaze and quickly drops the leash. “Oh, thank God,” she says. “Another survivor! I found this poor guy wandering around in the middle of the night.”

I give her a look of disbelief, and carefully listen to her thoughts as she explains herself.

“I found him with that thing on.” True, weirdly enough—but just the collar. She found the leash in one of the houses. “He was wandering alone, but I couldn’t just let the poor thing starve.” Also true. There’s a bit more to it—her companion brings her comfort, and she feels that he can improve her odds of survival—but I guess I could say the same about my companions, too. “He seems to be a bit of a space-case, which is why I was holding the...” she struggles for a better word than ‘leash’, and finally settles on “tether.”

I turn my attention to her companion. He does seem a little vacant, but that’s more from overwhelming hopelessness than from ‘being a space-case’. It reminds me a lot of when Gwen was surrendering to the murder-nun.

As weird and full of half-truths as it is, the woman’s story checks out.

I try to give a disarming smile. “You won’t find anything edible in these houses,” I tell her. “This neighborhood was picked clean ages ago. The whole suburb, in fact.”

She breathes a sigh of both frustration and relief, and smiles up at me. “Thank you. I’d probably be here for a week if you didn’t come along.”

I chuckle a little, coaxing a little more relaxation into her mind. “That’s me. Tour guide of the post-apocalypse.”

A flash of horror and recognition sparks an overwhelming blast of rage behind me, and I can literally feel the woman’s stomach drop.

“Karen,” Jen growls as she enters the house.

Gwen follows slightly behind her and the mist clears from the mind of the leashed man. His lips curl into a cute little smile (wait is that my thought or Gwen’s?) and he bounds towards our lady of the lake, leash dragging behind him.

“Jennifer,” the woman smiles, backing away slightly. “I’m so glad that you made it out.”

Without even looking, Jen pulls a rusty driver from the golf bag. “I thought the redhead said all the monsters were dead.”

“Friend of yours?” I ask. I mean for it to be sarcastic and disarming, but it comes out shaky and nervous. I’ve never seen Jen the least bit angry before. Sure, I’ve seen her sad, or frustrated, or tired... but this is 100% pure, uncut wrath.

Jen begins to slowly walk towards the woman with fire in her eyes and murder in her mind. “This cunt— " Jen punctuates the word by smashing an end table with the golf club—“is the one who put me away. This cunt—” the driver knocks a hole in the drywall—“oversaw my torture. This cunt—” the counter next to Karen is hit hard enough to crack the granite—“killed Amy.“

“I—I didn’t—” Karen begins. “I mean—I didn’t mean—I—” Her eyes dart over to her companion and she shouts, “Fourteen! Do something, you useless shit!”

The young man—Fourteen—does something. He sobs with relief as he hugs his long-lost friend.

I look to Jen and panic. My mind is racing, desperate to de-escalate this before she does something she’ll regret. “Are you sure Amy’s gone?” I ask.

A flicker of logic thankfully stops Jen from caving in this woman’s skull, and she lowers the weapon and takes a half-step back. “Is she?”

“Look,” Karen says, dropping to her knees, “I’m sorry. I’m so so so sorry. I was afraid. I was weak. I didn’t think they’d... I mean...”

“Jen,” I say, trying to catch her before she processes what Karen just said, “can we talk about this?”

Jen’s grip tightens on her weapon. I let a calm blow into her mind like a gentle breeze as I say, “Please. You’ll have final say, but I just want to make sure we do the right thing.”

Jen doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t swing either.

“Karen, come with us to the living room so you can plead your case.”

The adrenaline slowly leaves Karen’s body, and she begins to nod and shake, silently weeping with both relief and terror. She behaves as though we’re leading her to a firing squad.

Which, to be fair, we might be. But I don’t want Jen to kill someone—no matter whether or not they deserve it. Jen is a caregiver. The most beautiful soul I’ve ever seen. I can’t let her kill.

But she was also wronged, about as profoundly as anyone has ever been wronged. Would she forgive me if I killed Karen first?

The living room is just around the corner, with a big rotting couch against the far wall facing some plastic wreckage that was once a television. I sit on the couch, and Jen reluctantly sits by my side, leaning the golf club between us.

“Thank you so much for giving me a chance, mister,” Karen blubbers as she walks to an armchair off to the side. “I knew you were a nice guy when—”

“Shut the fuck up,” I shout.

It’s not a command, but Karen obeys nonetheless.

“And get out of that chair. This isn’t some friendly chat. Get the fuck on the floor.”

Karen freezes for a moment, taken aback by my shift in tone, evidently having pegged me as the ‘good cop’. When she finally starts moving, she walks towards us and surveys the ground, kicking aside a few pieces of glass from a shattered coffee table.

“On your knees,” I clarify.

The woman sighs and sinks to her knees.

“Well?” I say. “You’ve clearly done some horrible shit. So tell us why we should let you live.”

Karen looks to me and opens her mouth, but thinks better of it and turns her attention to Jen.

“Listen, we know each other. Before all this. We were in the same class together. If you sat on the other side of the room our first day, we might have even been best friends.”

Interesting tactic. Even more interesting that Karen actually thinks it will help her—that a little nostalgia will erase what she’s done.

“Do you remember our French teacher with the unibrow? Madamme Buisson? What was that funny name that your friend Beth made up for her? It was French for Ms. Bush-Face?”

“That was Amy,” Jen says coldly.

Any hope that Karen had for walking out of this room alive vanishes in a puff of regret. “I... I...” she stammers.

“You’re sorry,” I tell her.

“Yes! Oh God, I’m so, so sorry.” A spark of hope re-ignites.

“You’re weak and pathetic,” I continue. The words aren’t entirely my own; I’m reading from some deep part of her that she’s desperately tried to wall off. Still, I send them to as commands nonetheless.

“I am... I’m... I was so scared...”

“You know you’ve done more than enough to justify your death.” Reaching her on all frequencies.

Karen doesn’t repeat; she just slumps down, her enthusiasm fizzling to nothing.

“You betrayed your could-be-besties for personal gain.” Every word I say strips away a carefully constructed layer she’s built to protect herself from her actions. “Worse, to pledge yourself to monsters that... I’m going to bet killed at least one of your parents.”

Karen presses her forehead into the ground and bursts into tears. Her grief is consuming, smothering every other thought in her head. She tries to say something, but it comes out as incoherent wailing—even in her mind, I can barely make out “both of them and my baby brother.”

Jen looks over to me uncomfortably. She says nothing, but I can tell she thinks I’ve taken this a bit far. Which I find a bit funny coming from the woman who was going to play the back nine with this poor girl’s medulla oblongata just a few seconds ago, but at least it tells me she’s started to regain her perspective.

“Listen!” I command Karen.

Her wailing slows, and she lurches back to her crouched position, her puffy dark green eyes staring up at me through dishevelled hair.

“You’ve been a shit person. You’ve betrayed your friends. The memory of your family. Your entire fucking species.” Karen wants to look away as my commands hit her one after the other, but the listen order keeps her locked in place.

With great strength, Karen musters the effort to mouth “I know.”

“But would dying fix any of that?”

I wait patiently. Karen has to fight through a few more sobs before shaking her head.

“For what you’ve done, you don’t deserve anything. Food. Life. Happiness. As it stands, you’re so fucking deep in the red that you’d have to climb a mile to reach rock-bottom.”

Karen nods.

“But that can give your life purpose. And value.”

The sobbing finally stops, and Karen finally finds a spark of hope.

A dangerous thing for the line I’m trying to walk. She sees an escape hatch, not a path to salvation. I need to squash it out, just to be safe: “You don’t deserve pleasure or happiness.”

Her head lowers, but her sobbing stops.

“But you can find both if you’re willing to work for it.”

“Work for it?” Jen interrupts, her jaw clenching slightly. An itch in her mind tells her that I’m offering this monster a second chance.

I glance up to see Gwen peeking around the corner, making sure everything’s okay. Her heart is racing, and her mind’s eye resonates with echoes of the devil by the river who screamed a nun to death. “Gwen, sweetie,” I say, trying to be nonchalant to let her know I’m not a lunatic on a rampage, “could you bring me your friend’s necklace?”

Our Lady of the Lake nods and scurries off.

Jen connects the dots, and her doubtful glare is replaced by a wicked grin.

Karen, however, hasn’t put together the pieces, and is thinking the same thing that Jen was. Slap on the wrist, parole, and she’s free to go.

“Karen, you are going to die in this room,” I say, once again crushing this unfathomably optimistic ex-monster’s hope.

Karen whimpers, and a few more tears leak from her face.

I can feel Karen’s disgust in herself grow, suffocating her desperation to escape. The river of self-hatred is long and deep—she’s not a sociopath, she’s been fully aware of the misery she was bringing. She’s spent years trying to explain it away—to dam the river—but her ego is exhausted. The dam is leaking. It’s just a matter of time before the valley floods.

“Listen carefully,” I order her. “You’re no longer the selfish bitch who sold out her friends. You’re no longer the monster who forced Jen to make torture contraptions for the things that killed your family. You’re no longer the... cunt... who would put an innocent man on a leash and treat him like an attack dog. Your life, your entire being, is going to be devoted to paying your debt to Jen. You’re going to do what she tells you to do. Dress like she tells you to dress. Eat what she lets you eat. And you’re going to be happy to do so.”

Karen’s head nods, but there’s too much fear and desperation.

And under that fear and desperation, that goddamn spark of hope.

“Karen. Look at me.”

Karen faces me, but her eyes are jumping around.

“My eyes, Karen.” The order is a little more stern. I’m so close. Careful not to push too hard.

Those dark green eyes lock with mine.

“Repeat. Ready?”

Her head nods, but those eyes never leave mine.

“You’re not a person.”

“Y... I’m not a person.”

I shake my head. “I said repeat, not parrot. Say it yourself. From the soul. You’re not a person.” I push a little harder.

“I’m not a person.” Her eyes still don’t convey belief.

“Remember what you did. Not just to Jen, but to your family. Remember how you shat on their ashes when you joined the other side. You decided to help the things that killed your mother. Your father. Your baby brother. You’re not a person.”

“I... I’m not a person.” There it is. Surrender. She’s finally not just trying to appease me to get out of this alive. This is genuine. The dam is breaking.

“You’re not a person.”

Another tear rolls. “I’m not a person.”

“You don’t deserve to live.”

Her lip trembles. “I don’t deserve to live.”

“Your own life is all shame, no meaning.”

“My life is all shame, no meaning.”

Good. “Your only hope for meaning is to correct your wrongs.”

“My only hope for meaning is to correct my wrongs.” Her voice falters a little.

“You can find meaning in righting your wrongs.”

A spark appears in her eyes—but it’s not the defiant hope. It’s something else. “I can find meaning in righting my wrongs.”

“You can find joy in submitting to the one you’ve wronged.”

I can feel Karen try to tear her eyes away from mine to glance over to Jen.

I don’t let her.

“I can find joy into submitting to the one I’ve wronged.”

“You can find joy—real joy that you actually deserve—through submission.“

She repeats, “I... I can find joy that I actually deserve through submission.”

“You know you deserve to be treated like shit.”

Karen nods. “I’ve been an unforgivable cunt and I deserve to be treated like shit.” Her words aren’t desperate like they were when we started, or hysterical when she was breaking down. She says them like she’s stating a sad fact—like she’s telling a child their rabid dog has to be put down.

I pause. I didn’t expect her to improvise—but I can tell the answer is coming from the core of her being.

“Every breath Jen allows you to take from now on is a kindness.”

“Every breath I take is because of Jen’s kindness.”

“You’ll happily do anything Jen asks.”

Karen’s breaths steady. “I give myself to Jen, mind and body.”

“If Jen asked you to kill yourself, you’d do so gladly.”

A sleeve shoots up to Karen’s face and wipes off the tears. “If Jen wants me to kill myself to make amends, I’ll do it with a smile.”

I narrow my eyes. “Jen sounds a bit personal for the one whose mercy is letting you breathe, don’t you think?”

Karen thinks for a moment. “What does the goddess to whom I’m devoted wish for me to call her?”

Jen wrinkles her nose. “Definitely not goddess, you freakshow. Jen is fine.”

Karen nods, eyes still forcibly locked onto mine. “Whatever Jen wishes.”

I stare into Karen’s eyes for a few more seconds, searching those dark green pools—and her mind—for any more resistance. Finding none, I say, “You can look away now.”

Karen mutters her thanks and then turns to Jen, bowing deep, eyes on her knees.

“She’s lying,” Jen says. “She just wants to get out of this alive.”

I shrug. “She was at first. But did you see her breakdown? I think she’s realized what she’s done and genuinely wants to make amends.”

“Right. Because she totally deserves a second chance.”

“Well, you can always order her to brain herself with your golf club if you don’t think she’s worth the trouble.” I regret the suggestion the moment it leaves my mouth.

Karen scurries forward and grabs the golf club from between Jen and I, choking up and lining it up with her own forehead.

“Jesus,” Jen snaps, “stop it!”

Karen keeps the golf club ready and looks over to Jen. “If it will prove to you how sorry I am for what a miserable cunt I was, just say the word.”

Please, Jen, don’t say the word. Watching this idiot smash in her own skull on your command would be so much worse than just letting you do it yourself.

“Put down the club,” Jen commands her old classmate.

The rusty driver clamors to the floor.

“Stand up.”

Karen rises to her feet.

“Slap yourself.”

Even I’m surprised when Karen takes a second to wind up, pulling her arm all the way to the side and twisting as she throws her hand, as though trying to hit herself with an open-handed haymaker. Jen flinches from the thunderclap sound that it makes.

Jen narrows her eyes. “Do you know the one thing I remember about you?” she asks Karen.

“I’m sorry, Jen, I don’t.”

“You were always boring and sexless.”

Karen opens her mouth, but can’t think of a response. I can tell she wants to deny it, but she doesn’t dare to contradict Jen.

“You were the one who snitched on Beth and Ryan when they shared their first kiss in math class. You were the one who started calling Marcy Grieve a prostitute for getting a new boyfriend a week after she was dumped. You were the one who always came to school in bland, baggy clothes like a fucking Mennonite and giggled with your friends at anyone who had the audacity to dress with personality.”

Karen stares off into space. “I’m sorry,” she finally says. “I... I was jealous, and angry that your friends made fun of how I dressed. I guess I lashed out. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

Jen crosses her arms and stares in silence.

“I...” Karen stammers, “I’m sorry. That’s not true. I wanted to hurt you. And your friends. I was angry because I couldn’t look like you, or be like you, so I wanted to make you feel bad for being what I couldn’t.”

“Strip yourself.”

The order comes from left field, and I’m caught off-guard, but Karen doesn’t even hesitate. She immediately goes to the buttons of her beige blouse.

“No.”

At Jen’s command, Karen stops at the second button.

“I didn’t tell you to disrobe. I told you to strip yourself. Like you had them strip me. And like you had everyone you brought to me stripped.”

Karen nods and grabs a collar in either fist. With one solid motion, buttons are sent flying across the room as Karen begins violently tearing at her own shirt. She throws the back of her shirt over her head and pulls her arms apart. I can hear the fabric rip as the buttoned sleeves catch on her wrists, eliciting a grunt of frustration from Karen. Rather than delicately unbuttoning them or gently pulling them over, she raises a booted foot and stomps on the material, ripping it painfully off her left wrist. On the second yank, the right sleeve tears off, and she has to pull again to finally wrench the scrap of material off her hand.

Karen glances up to Jen, who silently watches, her mind a blissful pool of schadenfreude and catharsis.

Not seeing any objection, Karen dips to her knees to pick up the hem of her dark blue floor-length skirt. She struggles with it for a while, but eventually the material gives, and she rips it right up along the front, revealing plain white functional panties to match her plain white functional bra.

Karen tugs at the material, trying to rip through the waistband, but it tears to the side instead, ripping itself away and leaving her with what looks like a cloth belt with a zipper awkwardly hanging from the hip.

Karen doesn’t even lookup to Jen before taking hold of her bra, yanking it away from her chest—first by the straps, then by the underside.

Karen’s chest is pretty small—smaller than Jen’s—but she has surprisingly puffy nipples that seem to already be quite stiff. Her excitement isn’t sexual, though—not entirely, anyways. In her mind, she’s practically doing cartwheels at the opportunity to make it up to Jen, to erase just a fraction of the guilt that’s been rotting her soul.

No part of Karen’s bra gives—no surprise, the whole thing being thick elastic—but she yanks on it anyways, as was apparently part of the routine of “stripping” a captive. Eventually, when it’s so stretched out that it doesn’t cover anything, Karen pulls the useless garment over to her head and begins on the panties.

I can see Karen steel herself as she grabs the front of the final garment and yanks outwards then upwards—given her past, I doubt she’s had to suffer through this herself, but she’s likely seen more than enough of it to know this is part is particularly painful.

And boy, does it look like it hurts. She yanks forward, then upwards, with zero regard for the sensitive bits beneath, and then does the same at the back. Finally, with the garment stretched out and the subject suffering sufficient pain and humiliation, she finally attacks the legs, one after the other, ripping the seam and finally letting her pull the garment away. Finally, she unceremoniously kicks her shoes to the side and pulls off her socks by hopping on one foot, then the other. Apparently there’s no cruel way to remove one’s own footwear...

Karen’s teeth are grit and she’s breathing hard, but a little smile finds its way on her face as she’s finally done.

“What the fuck is that?” Jen asks, pointing at Karen’s newly-exposed privates.

Karen opens her eyes and looks down. “My... vagina?” she asks.

“It’s shaved.”

Karen blushes furiously, but nods.

“All that holier-than-thou bullshit, and you’ve been slutting yourself up this whole time.”

“I’m sorry,” Karen says. “It always made me feel... not so ugly.”

For a moment, my heart breaks for Karen—a tall, skinny girl (who’s actually quite pretty, now that she’s not dressed like an old spinster anymore) who wears baggy clothes because she’s ashamed of her looks, but does this one little secret thing to feel like one of the sexy girls.

Jen, of course, isn’t quite so sympathetic to her former torturer. “You are ugly,” she says. “On the inside. For everything you did.”

Karen’s face is full of shame, but she stands obediently before Jen, feeling like shit. She knows she deserves the feeling, but hearing the words from Jen, a girl she clearly once idolized, make it so much worse.

While Jen is putting on a stern face, I can tell she’s uncomfortable making Karen feel this way.

Jen sighs. “But your body is a lot prettier than you give yourself credit for. If we take you with us, then I can’t have you looking ugly on the outside. Which means you’re never going to wear any of that dumpy bullshit again.”

Karen’s eyes light up. “Yes, Jen.”

Jen glances over to me, and her mind races a bit. “And you’re not going to hide that slutty, shameful pussy of yours, either,” she says. Her words feel forced, and they leave a bad taste in her mouth, but she continues because she feels like she has to. “We’re going to keep that thing on display so the whole world will see what a bare-faced cunt you are.”

I get the feeling that the whole ‘bare-faced cunt’ line sounded better in Jen’s head, but I’ll let it go. After all, she’s not exactly well-practiced at being mean.

Jen looks over to see Gwen in the doorway, watching with fascination, holding the dog collar in her hand.

“Oh look,” Jen says, “Gwen’s here with your new wardrobe. What do you think?”

Karen smiles a weirdly Zen smile and bows her head. “If it’s what you want, then I’ll wear it proudly.”

As Jen leads Karen into the street, I approach Gwen and her friend who had been silently watching our little interrogation from the open doorway.

“I’m sorry about that,” I tell the young man. “That was... a little weirder than I’d hoped.”

The young man shrugs his narrow shoulders. “No problem,” he says, his voice high and lilting. “It was my collar, so I’m not one to judge.”

“Right. So I take it from the reunion that you’re Gwen’s boyfriend?”

The young man’s mouth curls into another girlish smile. “So she really did get a name.”

“Fourteen isn’t a boy,” Gwen says, matter-of-factly.

I look over and narrow my eyes. “Girlfriend?”

The young not-man(?) gives an ethereal laugh. “I’m more boy than girl,” Fourteen says. “I’m a singer.”

“Boys can’t be singers?”

Fourteen takes a deep breath and then begins singing a musical scale—up up up down up up up down higher higher higher lower—it goes on and on and on, each set more light and delicate than the last, until he climbs right to the far reaches of the human register.

If there were any dogs left in this town, I’m sure he could keep going just for them.

“A castrato,” I say.

“A what?” he asks.

“It’s an old term for singers who were castrated as boys so that their voices didn’t change.”

Another wave of musical laughter rolls from Fourteen. “Not exactly,” he says. “I lost my gentlemen because I got an erection when I was twelve. Though that’s probably for the best, given what happened to most of the other boys.”

“So... if you’re no longer a boy, what do you prefer to be called? Him or her?”

Fourteen scratches his soft smooth chin. “The priests referred to the singers as ‘it’.”

“The priests are all sucking cocks in hell,” I blurt. “What do you want to be called?”

He thinks. “Him always feels unfair, and Her feels mocking...”

“They?”

That weirdly cute smile creeps across their face. “I kind of like that.”

“Great. All we need for you is a name. Unless you want us to keep calling you Fourteen.”

I see the left side of their lip curl with distaste at the suggestion of willingly being called by his bunk number.

“Um,” Gwen nervously interjects, “Everyone loves how you sound. So how about Bell?”

Fourteen takes its last breath, and Bell smiles as they exhale. “I love it.”

Jen pokes her head back in the door and asks, “Are you coming?”

Karen quietly stands behind her, her hands folded submissively over her pelvis, blushing furiously as she obediently waits.

“We’ll be right out,” bell chimes, their voice ringing true to their name.

A few blocks from the edge of the suburbs, Jen hands Karen’s leash to Bell and grabs me by the arm.

“Can I talk to you for a second?” she asks, her eyes full of reluctant concern. She’s been wrestling with something—I didn’t want to fish for specifics—but something has been making her feel uncomfortable since we left the house.

“You three go ahead,” I tell Karen and the two former bunkmates. “We’ll catch up in a second.”

Gwen nods and Bell gives the leash a gentle tug, their mouth curling into a smile as Karen gives a little yelp and falls in line beside him.

“What’s up?” I ask Jen once the trio is out of earshot.

“I... I want to say thanks for stopping me back there. The more I think about it, the more I think I would regret if I’d... well..”

“Hit a birdie?” I offer.

Jen nods, and the hesitation builds in her throat. “Yeah. But...”

“It’s okay, you can talk to me,” I say to both her ear and soul.

“I know you want me to be the one to punish her, but... I don’t want to do to her what she did to me.”

I sigh. “Yeah, eye-for-an-eye is kind of what we’re trying to get away from.” I glance over at the tall brunette as she gingerly walks barefoot down the warm pavement, her perky little ass swaying as she goes.

“I...” Jen stammers, “I don’t want to become her. I know you’re probably expecting me to... to torture her or...”

I interrupt Jen by warmly resting my hand on her shoulder. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want.”

Jen shakes her head. “I can’t just let her go, though. She’ll eventually find more people like that nun. Like her.“

I nod. “She could. But I don’t think she wants to.”

Jen looks over to Karen, walking obediently by her former captive’s side as Bell laughs at something Gwen said.

I continue, “You heard her when we confronted her with all she did. She knows she deserves some sort of repercussion. You can handle it however you want, but I guarantee you she’s actually grateful for the chance to atone.”

It’s true. Even without my influence, the river of repressive self-doubt has cut a path from deep in Karen’s childhood. The leashed woman walking naked down the empty street isn’t some construct that I forced into her head. It’s a part of herself that she’d spent most of her life burying under toxic self-righteousness.

“You really think so?” Jen asks as the trio follow the street around a bend and disappear from sight.

I smile. “I would put cash-money on it. But we’ll find out once we catch up—if she’s been putting on an act to bide time to get away, this is when she’d do it.”

Jen’s eyes flash with panic, but I smile and laugh. “You don’t think she proved herself with her dressing-down?”

Jen returns my smile with a frown. “We basically had a gun to her head. She could have been complying because she had no choice.”

“Alright,” I say, “let’s bet on it.”

A hint of smile returns to Jen’s face. “I don’t think your cash-money is worth as much as you think it is.”

“Okay, how about this: it’s not a bet with me, it’s a bet with her.”

Jen narrows her eyes. “I don’t think it counts as a bet if she’s not involved.”

I chuckle. “Sure it does. It’s like a lawyer bargaining with a judge. If we round the corner and she’s tried to run away, then I’ll chase her down and make sure you never have to worry about her again, one way or the other. But if she’s prancing along on her little leash like a good girl, then she gets immunity to any sort of cruelty you’d feel squeamish about. You still have total dominion over her until you think she’s made up for what she’s done, but you’re not allowed to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

The bargain sounds more and more bizarre as it comes out of my mouth, but I can hear the gears turning in Jen’s head. It’s a perfect solution to her problem—she’ll have a reason not to be as violent as she seems to think I wanted her to be, but the person who’d spent so many years abusing her wouldn’t go free. (In all honesty, all I wanted was to spare Jen from having to live with the guilt of ending a human life—beyond that, I could care less what does or doesn’t happen to Karen.)

But that solution is only perfect if Karen’s behaving herself. If she tried to run, then Jen’s worried that she’ll be forcing the guilt of ending a life onto me instead.

Oh, that poor sweet girl. If she only knew the nature of my torture—the nightmares of what I’ve been made to do. Not to mention my hand in what happened to the nun we’d dragged through the woods, thrown into a ditch, and unceremoniously covered in leaves to decompose in peace away from our water supply...

Jen gets an idea, and pretends to think. I don’t hear any back-and-forth in her thoughts, though. In fact her mind is unusually clear, as if she’s—

Right. Of course. She’s listening—sneaking a peek behind the curtain before she chooses her prize.

I let a few more seconds pass. “Well, Honorable Judge Jennifer? What’s the verdict?”

Jen smiles and extends a hand. “You’ve got a deal.”

I smile back and give her hand an unnaturally rigid, business-like shake. I could be bitter about her cheating before agreeing to the deal—but to be fair, I’d been listening to Karen’s mind radiate a sense of acceptance and belonging (and more than a little shame) all along.