The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I hold myself discordant, alone in my room.

When I was with him, we were always in tune. He held me like a harmony, a little piece that was always around, always ready and always wonderful. I was a silky joy, a pleasured treasure. He slid his hands down my sides and my smooth skin, which would grow goosebumps, raise to him in any way it could. Oh Master! You gave me up, gave me back to myself and I...I treasured the freedom. I could listen to whatever I wanted, but it was hollow, it was empty, it didn’t fill me up with you anymore. There was nothing in the music that was me, nothing to sing for anymore. The words didn’t matter. There was no personal touch, and no touch at all! Master, oh Master, he went back to being a regular guy. Attractive, yes. Funny, yes. He would still call in to my radio show and request songs; this time I had all of them. Strange how our tastes still seemed to dovetail, even though we no longer belonged to each other.

I saw him across the cafeteria today. He grabbed his carrots from the salad bar the way he always used to, with his hands instead of the tongs. So unsanitary. I remember when he used to touch me with those hands. I remember when he used to love me so hard the music exploded in my brain with triumphant chords every time I even saw him. I was like an...an instrument. A violin. He would play himself on me, make me vibrate with the force of his passion.

But life isn’t musical anymore. You know, I used to think I could even see the sound? It was that strong, that compulsion. He held me, and we were one. He was the conductor, and I played what he signaled, breathed to the rhythms of his hands. He was the composer, and I was what he wrote. I think now that he wrote every piece for me, changed me to fit them and then them to fit me. I think I bewitched him with my playing, until he couldn’t stand it, until that one afternoon I stumbled into his house and the music played me until I wore out. He got back to find me crying in pain, but still touching myself, self-love turned torture. He had to let me go, his precious symphony, his creation.

Life is empty. He used to love me. He used to want me. Even when his hands smelled like carrots. I wanted him back.

So now I hold myself discordant, alone in my room. Listen to the same old songs and pretend they have the power they used to. I go to class with my headphones wiping out the happy laughs of other couples holding hands. I do my work with my speakers up at max volume, wishing they made me melt into them they way they used to, sliding into the purity that was sound, waking up with him holding me; finding that he had become the music, that I had melted into him.

I’m walking around dead, that’s what it is. My personality is music, and I’m incapable of making a sound. I used to sing along, but now I can’t even remember a single lyric.

I have to find him. I’m dead without him. How have I survived even this long, how have I kept from failing out? Well, I would have to leave campus if I flunked. They would take me away, and to counselors and doctors, and that would make everything worse.

I even tried seeing someone once, a few months ago. I couldn’t tell her what was really wrong, so I told her it was a break up. A simple case of “he doesn’t want me anymore.” And then it occurred to me that maybe he doesn’t. All the psychiatrist could tell me was that these feelings “would pass” and that I would come to feel normal again. There would be other loves, other boys and men that would be even better for me than this guy was.

But I don’t think so. My mistake, I guess, was in “seeing” someone at all. Her voice held no power. It was cracked and worn, but not with experience; from the boredom of “seeing” all these students, dullards with mundane problems. Every issue was the same to her, simply the angst of youth, and that would pass for us like it did for her. She wouldn’t even prescribe me something to make me forget. So I bought something off my neighbor. A sedative, I guess. I felt heavy, but just as upset. Just as empty, just as unconnected and lost. A note off the scale. Floating...

Where is he?

I thought I should stay away from him; he pushed me away, disconnected me. Took me out like a broken pair of headphones. Unplugged me and threw me away. If he wanted me, he should come find me. Not like I have pride or anything, I just don’t believe in putting myself where I’m not wanted.

Why? Why doesn’t he want me anymore? I was good, wasn’t I? Hell yes, I was excellent. Why doesn’t he want me? Why won’t he come find me, take me back? Was the fault with him? Well, he enslaved me, maybe he feels guilty. But he made me like it. I liked it. And I don’t know, maybe I shouldn’t be looking to get into that kind of relationship again, right? If I couldn’t handle it right last time, I don’t know...all my friends, the ones I didn’t think cared, noticed that I was all “gaga over some guy,” some bad-influence guy they didn’t like. So I blew them off. They’d been doing the same to me for months. What did they care if I was with him or if I wasn’t, to them I was just some messed-up kid, some depressed-looking, sloppy thing they didn’t invite out unless she happened to catch them eating dinner together, with each other, without her. Fuckers. They saw no real change. And these were the best friends I could get? Fuckers.

He must want me, right? Why won’t he come to me?

I even tried sleeping with someone else. I went to this party, right? There was loud, unfeeling music. People danced to it. I copied their moves, and I think I looked fairly normal. I found a guy, one that looked a little like him, and after he’d been hitting the bar pretty regularly for an hour or two, I sashayed up to him in a parody of sexy and asked him to dance. A shallow ploy. I asked him up to my room for a movie. There was a shallow ploy he could really get behind, like me with my face shoved into the pillow barely even feeling he was there, moaning encouragement in my best bimbo-impression voice. You know; high, squeaking, “oh-ma-god-fuck-me-harder,” that kind of thing. Oh you big stud. You just about kill me.

I kicked the guy out about five minutes after he’d thrown the oozing condom into my trash can, which of course I’d forgotten to put a bag in because I was so depressed I barely remembered to take my shoes off before I collapsed into my bed at night. So my room smelled like sperm for like half a week while I put off cleaning the damn thing out and putting a fan in the window to blow some cold air into the room because it was now (duh) winter. So five minutes with the fan on, problem solved. That one, anyway. Little problems you just never get around to because they’re a big pain. Big problems you spend all your time thinking about because you can’t do anything about them. It depends on someone else, or your plan of attack. So this was all about my (I don’t even know why I don’t laugh when I say this) former Master. Yes, master. Not that, like, I really ever called him that except when he wanted me to, for kicks. It was mostly just Max.

Wow. Did you see that? I hadn’t even thought his name in months. It was always just “him” or “master” or “that fucking guy.” Because I guess this is kind of analogous to a break up, just, in my psyche as well as my heart, pride, whatever, the whole shmear.

Max. His name is Max. And he’s a real guy, and he lives a couple streets away, right off campus. He eats, he goes to class, he listens to music. He calls his mother. She’s a lovely woman, I talked to her once or twice. She sends him lots of food, too. Sometimes homemade. I wonder what kind of music she likes, or, rather, where he got his love of music. Was it from her? His dad? No, I think he said once his dad was long gone.

So I have to go to him.

One must be proactive about her own slavery, right? If he hasn’t come to me, he either doesn’t want me back, or he does but he feels like he can’t come back to me for whatever reason. Like that reason where I call the cops and have him put away forever, or the one where I have mob connections and get him beaten up or killed for touching me again. Or, perhaps, he’s shy, nervous, and ashamed. Or any one of the three. I have to find him.

Let me see, have I been stalking him this semester? No. I don’t know where or when any of his classes or activities are. I could go to his house and wait, but, what if he has another girlfriend? Or his friends are there? I don’t know if they knew about me or how much they knew. Bottom line, I can’t walk into a full house. Or an empty one, it would bring back memories of that night that hurt hurt hurt...

The radio station. The one place where he’d be alone, alone with music. Music should go to music. As song follows song, so will I fall to his feet in the DJ booth, so will I beg for my life back with both forces that give it pulsing before me. Plus, the show schedule is online; I can look up when his time is.

Thursday. Three o clock. The walk from my room to the station never felt so long, or so invisible. I heard my feet on the path, felt the breath steaming in and out of my nose and mouth, but my vision had blurred. I found my way there by instinct, fingers tingling with adrenaline. Clench, unclench. Clench.

I push open the door with one hand, vision still blurred and now tunneling. I hold the railing to keep from tripping down the stairs. Faint music streams out from underneath the door at the end of the hall, the one painted with our call letters and logos.

Draw in one breath. Faint steps echoing. Peeling door open, throwing self into the maze that is the stacks of records, CD’s, tapes. Badly labeled, music strewn everywhere. Unorganized, it gives me a tic behind my right shoulder. It twinges once, twice. The light grows; the booth is right around the corner. Three steps, two steps, one...

And there he was. Alone, head on hands bent over the sound board.

“Hey.”

He looked up. He looked tired. More than that, he looked chronically tired. There was an unlit cigarette in his left hand. “Hi.”

“You didn’t use to smoke,” I said.

“I didn’t use to be a monster, either,” he said, staring back down at his lap.

“Monster? Since when are you a monster?” I asked, stepping completely into the booth and peeling off my coat.

He looked up at me again, piteously. “What? You know. You. What I did to you. I’m a horrible person for doing it, I’ve been thinking about it and what I did was completely subhuman, just unconscionable. That makes me a monster and I know I can never undo it, but I swear, you can do whatever you want to me and I won’t complain at all.”

“I’m not here for an apology, or to do anything awful to you.”

“Really? Why?”

“Because it wasn’t awful. You’re not a monster, and I—”

“Not a monster? How...look, it was awful. I fucking enslaved you, you had no will of your own around me and I made you perform for me and sleep with me and—oh god. It sounds even worse out loud, and especially to you. I’ve never said it to you, I’ve never even apologized to you but oh god I’m so sorry, so so sorry. I, well, I must have meant some harm but I never meant to hurt you.”

“Max, it’s OK.”

“How can it be OK? I took away your life. I made you love only me. Please don’t look at me.”

“But you did...you cared about me, right? You, you liked me?”

“Liked you? Of course. That’s why I did it. You were so beautiful and so perfect but so...well, young. Inexperienced. I knew it wouldn’t work to just ask you out, even if you said yes we weren’t going to be compatible. It felt to me like we we’re supposed to be together forev...well, for a really long time but that we weren’t ever going to get the chance because we were supposed to meet later in life. And I didn’t want that, I wanted you, I was madly in love and I did some really stupid things.”

“But it was for the best.”

“The best? How can that be possible? I don’t understand, I don’t understand why you’re here. You’ve avoided me for months, it was the right thing.”

“I—h” I took the longest breath of my life, the shortest pause. “I want you back. Or rather, I want you to take me back.”

He practically choked. He looked at me with incredulity. “Back?”

“I want to be with you. I want the music again.”

“The music? Oh, yeah. Well, no. I don’t think, I don’t think I could live with myself if I ever did that to anyone ever again. It was a violation thing, it was wrong of me to do that to you. I think I warped you. And you want to go back to that? After that day when—well, yeah, just no. No more special music.”

Black despair.

“But if you really don’t think I’m a monster, h-how, how about a movie?”

Hallelujah choir.