The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Snoopy is a Cat

Hello everyone, I am ‘Snoopy’. Notice the ‘half quotes’? Those are because ‘Snoopy’ is not my real name, it is my nickname. The one I use in everyday normal life, and in the new normal that is my new life. I also happen to be very snoopy as well, which how I got here, I’ll get there. My real name, given and legal, is Julia Meredith Beagle. Inside though, in my thoughts, in the place that is me and me alone, I am and remain, Snoopy. I am happy and proud both to be a brand new UCA companion. Being a companion is no where I had envisioned when I started middle school, no where I had imagined when I started High School, no where I had ever thought life might take me. Two years ago I had no idea what a companion was, a year ago I had no idea they existed in real life.

Sex, well, I had thought about it, considered it, intellectually at least. I had had no one worth considering it with though, even plain looking me had had a few offers. You know, interested parties, if you’re female, they happen. Until, until I did, until I had a reason, until I had a purpose, until I wanted it for reasons my own. I can still barely believe I volunteered, except for those moments where I wonder why I even had to think about it, then I wonder that there ever was a question. You know the moments I mean, the ones you never write down, even in the insufficiently damnable, otherwise redundantly complete reports, the ones that cover every detail of your assignment. The ones you never talk about either, even in the privacy of your own thoughts in your own mind. That post assignment memory fade while you still carry the high with you everywhere. Those hours to days where you are jazzed, where you know why, yet you don’t have to think about what you did to feel this good, when not thinking about it makes it jazzier.

This starts my third week, I just finished a very celebratory valentines day, my fifth assignment, and so far, my favorite, just as my next or another soon will be, or so I suspect. I was not exactly experienced when I went in, when I joined, when I decided to have sex for a living. Ok, I still live at home, but I had plans, not the ones I had before, but I still have them. In fact, I was as close to a virgin as the medical people would allow, I know that for a fact, it took me a few tries to get there, they measure you. (Uckkk!!) ‘Insufficient adaptation.’ Translated to ‘Go fuck someone’ or ‘Get laid. Again!’, and is still the most embarrassing doctors note I have ever gotten.(Where is the emoti for glowing red frown?) “How much is enough doctor?” => “You’ll get there, be patient.", was a little humiliating the second time, and I am not admitting the rest, especially since they were/are right.

I am still getting used to simply knowing what to do now, and how to do it. I know I am, like we all are, something of a sex worker. Despite last weekend though, I don’t really feel like one. I spent it with a boy, we had sex, more than once, way more than once. It wasn’t my first time, but not that far from it, as I mentioned, but it was his. I know this is old hat to most of you, but to me it is still amazing. I just spent the entire valentines day weekend, ‘Deciding’. Completely the wrong word, but no other word comes even close. Deciding to entice this young man, the teenage son of the actual paying clients, to enjoy me over and over, it felt great, I loved it. The other part, and the far larger part which still puzzles me, was simply talking to him. Not about any one thing, about many different things, many and way more than I realized a boy, young man, teen male, would want to talk about when he could be having sex instead. To my shock, he seemed as happy to be simply talking to me, as he was exploring me. I also just discovered I will be spending Easter with him as well, that was fast! I know it should bother me, the whole being leased thing, what does it make me … us. Does it make me a service? Or just another type of labor? Kind of like lawyering?, only with far better customer service standards. Yes we also screw our customers, but at least we get paid for the right job. Yet now that I think about it, that upcoming holiday, it kind of worries me. All I can think of, is how am I going to cover not remembering this entire weekend that weekend? I had not thought about it at the time, the idea of repeats did not occur to me, but now that I know I will be spending another family holiday with him, how do I tell him? Do I tell him? Like not telling him is going to help, I am quite sure he will notice, are his parents making some kind of a point hiring me again? “Hello and happy to meet you for your second and my first time for the second time?” I would love a reply if anyone has one. Someone out there has done repeat engagements, haven’t they?

This is not how my life started out, or how I had envisioned it going. I had plans, I had ideas, I had dreams, I need a damn university degree to do what I want though. I had given up on the latter until I got an unexpected recommendation from an unexpected friend. She told me about things that had happened in her life, which I hadn’t known about. She told me about you, the new people in her life. Then she told me what happened to her. How unexpected her kidnapping was, how anticlimactic, yet how harrowing her save was. By a random stranger that didn’t know she was missing of all people, who just did the right thing. Then how far he and her(our now I guess) work’s efforts went to save her. She introduced her savior to me, then used him to introduce me to your world. I was scared at first, I ran away, then later I came back, I had to, here is part of why.

I was born on Halloween at twelve oh one AM in 1993. That makes me sixteen years, three and one half months old, give or take a few days. I barely knew of the UCA before my birthday, learned about it and decided to join by a month after. Funny what a few weeks can do to your life. The contraction that birthed me started at the stroke of midnight. I know this because there is a church just a few blocks from the hospital. They ring their bells for lots of things. Including ‘All hallows eve.’ and ‘All saints day.’. Just two among many, many, others. They really like their bells.

The bell startled her, starting the contraction. I came out just over a minute later, just over forty seven minutes after her water broke. The doctors were worried, the nurses semi panicked, it was just too quick to be normal. They were all expecting me hours later, not by the time the bells fell silent. My mother was just glad it was over. Dad gave out candy that night, with pink candy cigars for the children mixed in. The real ones he gave to the fathers taking children out trick or treating.

My early years were filled with love, joy, and bouts of boredom. After learning to speak a little late. I spent most of my time learning to read by helping mom in the kitchen, and dad in the garage. She is a book keeper who wants to be a baker, which I think she would be happier as, and should be. He is a mechanic who would rather be flying model planes. Though the scale he prefers make them more suited as flying go carts for children, than as models.

The bouts of boredom started with school. I loved it, for the first few weeks. Then I noticed everyone settling down into predictable patterns, especially the teachers. I ran out of books in the regular library in the second grade. I finished the reference section in the fourth. By that time I hated the other students, the teachers as well, though I was careful to keep those facts hidden.

The other students all thought they were being mysterious, they were so predictable though. They lived on rumor and strife, I preferred facts. I liked, Like!, holding things in my hands. From baking and model making I had learned precision. From cake and candy presentation I learned most of what you see is just dressage. From model making I learned forethought is critical. From model flying I learned that you have to anticipate in order to be ready.

I went into middle school ready for anything. Anything that is, except another like me. Her name is Virginia. We hated each other on sight. Ok, hate is the wrong word again. Just like ‘Deciding’ was before, ‘Hate’ is the wrong word now. I will just have to keep using the wrong ones until I find or make the right ones. We both wore the disguise of vague indifference. Others take it as many other things. We first saw each other getting off two different school buses the second week of seventh grade. We saw through each other’s disguises at a glance.

The only thing we ‘Hated’ (Still the wrong word and I know it, I’ll find it though.), more than each other, were ‘Them!’. The mentally retarded moronic masses filling the school to over flowing. We threw random people at each other’s shell of ‘Friends’ and ‘Acquaintances’ we used as shields to keep the masses at bay. The effort was half hearted on both our parts though, we refused to risk our own shell’s shelter in a war. I guess mutually assured destruction works sometimes.

The first time we actually spoke was just before Thanksgiving vacation. It was Monday, as we were getting off our respective buses. I had been greeted by the vice principal and three teachers. There had been a break in at the school over the weekend. There was a witness, it turned out. I matched his description of the intruder. I had denied it being me, and still was. I was nervous and scared because it had been me, but I couldn’t admit it, at least not then. I was trying to figure out an alibi that would hold up. Despite the break in, I still didn’t have any proof of what I knew. I’ll get there in a minute.

“Yo bitch.” Virginia had unexpectedly said throwing a math book toward me as she walked by from her bus. “I am no delivery service. Next time you leave your book at the coffee shop you can get it from lost and found yourself. You’re just lucky I owed Lucy a favor.”

“What the?” The vice principal asked staring at the book now sprawled on the ground. Most especially on the prominent bookmark, a receipt from the coffee shop. Interestingly to him, and shockingly to me, it showed a time stamp during the break in. “You didn’t mention having been with anyone. In fact, you have been refusing to say where you were.”

“I don’t like to talk about it.” I said taking the opening provided.

“About what?” He asked frowning.

“I tutor some.” I said, not quite a lie, but not the truth he was looking for. I did tutor, quite a bit actually, but more during the summer than any other time. While I did have an allowance, and earned a little money doing this and that. Sometimes I needed more money for something at one time than I normally had. Tutoring someone at the coffee shop not only saved me money on drinks while practicing social, I actually made some on a good day. “I don’t talk about it.”

“I see.” He said frowning some more, taking the bookmark receipt from the math book that only I knew wasn’t mine. While it was obvious he suspected something was up, he was outmaneuvered for the moment so he took the excuse. His look told he knew I was lying, but knew he wasn’t going to able to prove it. He also had no idea why I was, which bothered him. “I will be talking to the staff.”

“Talk away.” I said with far more confidence than I felt. I had in fact been there that day, but much later. “I keep a low profile. Most of the time who ever I am tutoring pays the bill.”

“We’ll see.” He said walking away motioning the rest of the adults to follow. I returned the book to Lucy. I never knew how or why Virginia had had it. I also never knew how or why she happened to have a receipt time stamped at the right time in a math book that wasn’t hers. Questions I still have no answers to.

Payback came three days later. Virginia was in a heated argument with the teacher whose room I had burgled looking for proof. He was standing over her in the corridor, looming, threatening. Trying to intimidate her with his size and authority as a teacher. Then she kneed him in the groin, missing a little when he blocked just barely in time.

“Bitch.” The teacher screamed grabbing her. Then slapped her hard enough to knock her down after she bounced off the wall, hard.

“What the hell is going on?” The vice principal yelled, appearing just as Virginia started kicking weakly at the teachers knees.

“He just grabbed her.” I yelled. “She is defending herself.”

“Bullshit.” The teacher yelled just as Virginia’s flailing foot connected with her backpack sending its contents sprawling across the hallway.

“Frank?” The vice principal asked, suddenly quiet, staring. A Polaroid of a young girl kneeling at a man’s crotch mouthing him is staring up at him from a binder flung out her pack. The look on his face an explanation of his tone, he recognizes something in that picture besides the young girl. It wasn’t alone, there were a lot of pictures, and a lot of young girls.

“Oh crap.” The teacher stammered as Virginia took advantage of his distraction to get loose, grab her bag and other things. Then she fled, leaving the spilled binder behind.

I fled as well. We didn’t speak the rest of the year, but we stopped messing with each other. Our friends soon enough learned that we never crossed paths. Neither group, nor those in common, knew why. They accepted it because neither of us made a fuss about it. It also helped that a lecherous teacher who had been preying on students for years was now gone. Everyone knew we had done it, but no one knew how, or why we had done it together. She had saved me when I was trying to find the proof. Then I saved her when she did. We let the mystery stand.

“Thank you for the receipt.” I told her a year later when I found her standing there staring at the spot in the hallway where it had all gone down.

“Thank you for the alibi.” She replied. A silent minute later we went our own ways.

We didn’t become friends then, but I never stopped trying to understand her. I’ve always striven to understand how things work. That day started me on trying to understand people. She wasn’t one of his victims. As far as I could ever find out, she never even knew any of his victims. Just as I had done, she had heard the whispers, seen the signs in haunted faces of older girls. Discovered the truth, then done something about it. We barely ever spoke, even when we ended up in the same place, but we no longer actively avoided each other.

“We could be friends you know.” I said when I saw her in front of the high school the next year, obviously girding herself to enter for the first time.

“Why were you breaking into his office?” She asked, that it was a question she already knew the answer to was obvious.

“For proof. It wasn’t there. Where did you find it?” I asked, knowing in my own way what she would say.

“In his basement.” She confirmed.

“His basement?” I asked, my respect and fear for her both going up in equal measure.

“Yes.”

“Why?” I asked. The question obvious.

“Because I know what his kind does to others.” She answered flatly. “School was the one place where I could escape the sameness of my life. He threatened that. He had to go.”

“I agree, he had to go.” I agreed. “I don’t think there are any like him here.”

“I know. I have checked. There are not.”

“Can we be friends?” I asked not expecting much.

“Yes.” She agreed, and we did. We weren’t the kind of friends who complete each others sentences or seem to live at each other’s houses. We were the kind who were simply always there when the other needed her. Separate but complementary lives.

Over spring she found a boy, an apparent birthday present to herself, which she soon enough traded for another. An easy thing to do when you have her looks. They line up to be used like a toy just for the chance to score. She traded several times, then a few more, and yet a few more. I saw something change in her as summer approached. We didn’t grow distant, but we stopped growing closer. Then one day just as summer break began, she vanished, leaving only a note that she needed some space. Her parents eventually came to me after trying all her regular friends, I knew nothing. Then I looked for her, I found nothing at all. She was no where. For over a month she was simply gone, then she reappeared with a story about having gone camping to ‘Get away from it all.’.

I had no idea where she had gone, no one did. The person who came back though, was not the person who had left to go camping. Looking at her I could see she was now someone else, yet also so much more herself that I could not stop trying to comprehend. The young woman who came back from the camping trip the girl went on, immediately started working at an arcade. She put in lots of hours at work, she partied hard, yet she always seemed to be in control now. A sharp edge had been rubbed round. A brittle hardness softened without weakening her. It left an over all more rounded person behind. It felt like some gaping wound somewhere in her had been cauterized so she could heal from something.

Then she disappeared again five weeks later. This time her work was looking for her even harder than her parents had been before, and sooner, much sooner. Her work contacted me four hours after I last saw her, saying she had missed her shift. That is the moment I got truly curious about the UCA itself. Because the management was worried about her, not pissed about the missed shift. I had no idea then, why they would contact me. A day passed, then two, and yet another half. Finally she was found, brutally traumatized. The victim of something beyond words. I read the reports, and I wish I hadn’t, I really wish I hadn’t.

I saw her later, after her return, at a park. Her parents had taken her to her favorite swings. They stared at her drooling on the swing set, as the social worker type people flocked about her like flamingos. I saw tears in her parents eyes unflowed, unshed, held back by will alone. Pain I could only guess the workers were even more blind to, than they were the reality Virginia was in. The person I saw, the drugged zombie, was nothing of the person I knew. What they were doing to her was horrid, it nearly brought me to tears just watching the circus they made of it. Her parents agreed with me I guessed, because they sent her away to be taken care of, some where.

Weeks later I found her by accident. A friend who had moved, told a board we frequent about Virginia saving a boy at a pool. She was living with him. Attending school with him. Tagging along after him like a puppy. What confused me though, was that her work had sent along a chaperone. She was living with a teen boy. The one who had apparently saved her. The chaperone was with them twenty four hours a day. Virginia slept in his room, behind a curtain. He accompanied her through the girls locker room blindfolded, to swim everyday. Intrigued, I began investigating in earnest. What I found, fascinated me.

What I found was you, and by you, I mean ‘us’ now. Despite all my time and effort finding things to write about. Despite all my time and effort writing it all down. Despite everything I can do, finding words to express what I have discovered escapes me. As those who know me already know, I want to be a reporter. Not a blogger. Not a back room word jockey. Not a news anchor. No, what I want is to find real news. Things that effect people’s lives, then write about them. I want to make a difference.

Right now though, I am writing about something at once personal and impersonal. Things that affect my life in ways I had not considered before. This last weekend is just one of them. From Friday before dinner, until after dinner Sunday. I spent with a very nice, though nervous young man. It was horrifying, and thrilling fun at the same time. From the moment I sat down to dinner with him and his parents, both of whom had arranged for me. I knew I would be sleeping with him. I had had the knowledge before. It was intellectual though, just a discrete factoid. Sitting down with them is the moment where it became real. I felt me, the whole of me, come to know it, and welcome it.

Our first moment alone I tried to explain to him that I was a sure thing. He was going to score me, that issue was settled. He was equal parts horrified, and male. For my part I am still getting used to whom ever I am assigned to, hand’s belonging on me. My revulsion and exhilaration both were muted at the time, I wasn’t sure what I really felt. I didn’t just simply experience it though, I lived it. I have heard it described as an addictive high. That is not true though, I find it more mind numbing in the good way. Because eventually, you find you want it. That numbness is an odd kind of relief, and an even odder release, better than any high.

Your assignment becomes your world. Somewhere in the middle of everything, it stops being a job you are doing. It becomes instead something you are an extension of. It is no longer a thing you are doing, it is a thing you are. You are part of it, and it is part of you. You want him, and most of the time it is a ‘Him’. You want him to want you like you want him. He becomes everything to you. Nothing is more important than his comfort and happiness. This does not translate into slavish obedience. At least none of my assignments so far have. Instead, it becomes a dedication to ensuring he enjoys his time with you to the fullest. You optimize yourself to maximize his enjoyment, finding it also does yours as well.

Then two days afterwards, it starts fading, and you feel this loss, this looming hollow currently filled with dread. Two more days and all you know of it are some words you wrote that sound nothing like you. Then on the next assignment, there is always a next assignment. Then you understand that feeling again. Suddenly the words you read, and how you read them before, seem so hollow, so shallow. You ask yourself how could you have settled for those simple words to describe something like this. Anticipation mixes with dread. You get high on expectation. You ride that high trying not to have panic attacks knowing it will end.

Then when it is over you strive so hard to preserve that feeling this time. Knowing you won’t get to remember that feeling of being with him because you will not remember him. You try more again, you try harder. Eventually, after enough times, you start trying to sound mature as well, not like a ten or twelve year old with a crush. Makes repeat engagements weird I am told, which is part of why I started writing this, still looking for repetitious advice that is not just a repetition. The hard part I find, is knowing that no matter how hard you try, you will never capture what you know will fade. Some small part of you hates yourself, not for knowing you will feel it again with someone else, but for being ok with it. It is a cruelty, a blessing, and I believe ultimately, a necessity.

While I find it cruel to lose the memory of that feeling, but not its ghost. Remembering it with so many men over the years would I believe be harder. To feel that completeness over and over, would I believe wear away at you. Since that void is obviously so easy to fill. That over and over it is filled and you are completed. Would leave you feeling hollow. Eventually it would make everything hollow, even, and most especially, you.

Now while it is fresh I can write how comforted I was, crawling into bed with him. How great it felt assuring him there was no pressure. How happy I was, guiding him exploring me. I showed him all of me, explaining everything as I went. I guided his hands onto my breasts. Taught him how to release a bra with one hand. Then how to undress and redress me with every outfit I had with me, since he was so fascinated by that. What is it about males and unwrapping us? I taught him to run his hands over me sensually. His touch my reward, his want my motivation. Me, his reward and motivation in return. I taught him the difference between the package and wrapping. In doing so I learned about that difference, and myself.

He was embarrassed and scared. We spent hours with him getting to know me and my body both, while we talked in bed. When talking was over, he spent half the first night simply running his hands over me for no more reason than he could. I eventually went down on him, he slept almost as soon as I swallowed. I made him a man at dawn and we played. Showing him how to touch and be touched until lunch.

His father was dubious, his mother could tell at a glance. Both were happy for their boy. The family picnic and party that day, and the next, was enlightening. His brother, male cousins and their male friends brought their girlfriends. The female cousins and such brought their boyfriends of course. That just made things harder in ways. Looking at the girlfriends I saw boffers, toys, sex kittens, eye candy of lesser kinds, and that was about all. None of them used the brains they had, and sadly that included the female cousins. For the first time I understood what we are.

Despite being outshone in every purely physical way, I was the star. They all had bigger chests, were taller, or skinnier, or prettier. They were all more of this or that or some other purely physical measure. I however, was a companion. They mostly tittered among themselves about nothing. I talked about things. I took part in the conversations. The father and the son are both engineering types. I took my cue from my assignment, letting my intelligence out to play. The boffers and the rest stayed silent mostly. I spoke up when I had something to say. They were seen, ogled. I was heard, I was talked to, they hated me.

By lunch Sunday I was drawing the attention of most of the boys and young men there. As fun as their toys were, as nice to look at as they were, I engaged my assignment. I also did them, at least verbally. Doing so in ways their toys could not hope to understand, or match if they did. Watching them knowing I was with him, was fun. It felt great, seeing jealousy and sorrow in their collective eyes when we left together for one last roll in the hay before dinner. One of the few gender equal reactions, even if the reasons behind the looks were completely gender split. After making it obvious that I wanted to be there, with him, I got a thrill watching the march of emotions across the sea of faces. I liked watching the eye candy be jealous of me, that was nearly as enjoyable as my assignment.

His father told me over dinner that his son’s siblings and cousins were livid about me. His Mother handed me an amethyst necklace as a thank you. I tried to demur, but they insisted. I have made it part of my ‘Uniform’ for assignments of particular types. As I said earlier, I am already contracted for as much of Easter as I can get away from my own family for. I think they have hopes if not plans for me with their son. I am comforted and haunted by that idea. I also know they will not hold my past against me, this despite knowing it is impossible. Why are girls and women worth keeping, so damn hard for boys and men to find? Why are boys and men worth keeping, so damn hard for girls and women to find? So far I remain unconvinced these are two separate questions.

Despite missing about a month of school while I brewed, I was caught up after only two weeks. This on top of doing two assignments a week, and arcade shifts. I have always been intelligent. Now I am quick as well. I didn’t understand the difference before, now I do.

Right now I still carry the glow from an assignment. I am equal parts Vivian from pretty woman, Inara from Firefly, and Snoopy the reporter beagle. I used to believe the sex trade was about sex. I know better now, and though I understand more, I am still understanding more as well.

What I have found is, the sex trade is not about sex, it is about being human. Of holding and being held. About talking and listening. About touching and being touched. Little of our job is about sex, and the better of a job we do, the less sex our clients actually want, or need, which still freaks me out.

I could be crude and say it is a celebration of being a mammal. Yet it is also about simply being. About filling in the gaps and voids modern life leaves in people’s lives. We fulfill a need, stop the draining of a reservoir. We help make people whole again, at least for a while anyway.

Sorry again about spamming the whole company. Somehow the directions for the internal e-mail system were not included in the package. You would think that five weeks to remake a person would include everything under the sun. Yet I can also understand it. Nothing I have found in the package is complete, nor is it intended to be.

It prompts us, drives us, makes assignments a part of us. Yet despite all that, it does not really change us, we remain who we are. It does nothing more than make us more of what we already are. Make us truer to ourselves than we could understand that we were not already being.

I am sorry I am bouncing around subjects, but this is the way my brain is working tonight.

Remember. It may be a dark and stormy night, but we will always have someone to have, to hold, and to keep us warm in the coming storm. We companions are never alone, unless we want to be.

This is me, signing off to go sniff out something more to write about later.

Snoopy.