The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

There was motion in the corner of her eye; involuntarily, Margaret turned away from her book for a moment to follow it. She blinked. Uncrossing her legs, slowly lowering her book, Margaret inched closer to stare at the girl gliding across the sunny field; she had black hair in a high ponytail, an odd choice of clothing, and a million dollar smile. Absentmindedly, Margaret scratched at her neck. The girl wore something that made Margaret swelter in her thin top and skirt. With a blazing sun overhead, and the air thick with dust, the girl was wearing a pair of extremely shiny pantyhose, either really thick or double layer, judging by the shimmer of the light. The daisy duke shorts on top of the nylons fitted her achronologically. The girl was too chirpy, too happy, too jumpy, even, for this heat. Margaret fumbled with her book, lifted it to cover her reddening face, ignored the text, and just stared at the girl. With her book edged like that, the girl was like a red dot on sing-a-long music videos. Margaret didn’t blink until the girl disappeared into the university’s main building.

She closed her book, closed her eyes for a moment, and then took a long swig from her cold, cold drink. The cup was wet with condensation, and the iced water hit her throat with the diluted taste of a soda left too long. All the while Margaret’s eyes took account of the small garden at the front of the university’s main building, with its lawn chairs and blooming, dying bushes. For a first today, Margaret noticed the people in the space. She blinked, and wondered just how old she must be to not get fashions anymore. Well, she would’ve had to get the ones she lived through in the first place to understand these new ones; but why were daisy duke shorts back? And why with pantyhose? And why everyone wearing the same colours? Every girl she could see from her spot by the outdoors juice bar was wearing the exact same lower-half: very tight, denim daisy dukes; tan, shimmery pantyhose; and sneakers seemingly made out of denim.

“A fad? Uniform? Fashion?” She wondered out loud. “What the hell is this?” She said more quietly, suddenly aware of stares digging into her back. She didn’t dare to check if someone was actually staring. Absentmindedly, she scratched at the back of her neck.

The ice in her drink finally melted, and a little after, Margaret nearly forgot her book when she made for class.

Today it was only Margaret, the professor, two other girls, and a boy that, in six months, had not said a single word; at least had not said anything that Margaret could hear, or remember. Not that she was aware if anyone spoke. Did she? She didn’t know.

“Good morning, class.” The professor spoke in her pretty voice and Margaret was reminded of that bug that was always biting her neck.

Absentmindedly, Margaret wondered why this professor was dressed like the girls outside were. Suddenly reminded of her school years, many a decade ago, Margaret could see the ice-cold stare of her teachers telling her off for missing this or that bit of the uniform. Had the university suddenly decided to instill a uniform? No, that was silly. Why daisy dukes in that case? Then it must be a joke, or project, that Margaret wasn’t let on about. Typical! Her neck itched.

“Good day, Prof.” The girls said, cheerfully, in a tone that bespoke of familiarity outside of the classroom. The boy on the back barely grumbled something that, heard correctly, would’ve translated to the same phrase.

I am confused. Margaret thought. Not only was the classroom empty, but the girls spoke in unison, and the professor was dressed not like a professor. And those equations written on the whiteboard made no sense. It was then that Margaret realized she wasn’t in the right class. No wonder!

“Excuse me; I got into the wrong class. Again,” She said, standing up.

The Professor looked at Margaret with a bemused expression. Did she know that with the outfit she wore, the pose was more sexy than disappointed, Margaret wondered.

“Don’t worry, Margaret. You always do. You still have time before your next class.”

“Thanks. Sorry. Sorry.” Margaret said and slipped away.

Usually Margaret avoided most places on campus after her classes; easier to hide her blushing from the snickering of the younger students that way. Once, she had wondered that maybe one day she would be done with such reactions, but her twenty years out of college were obviously not enough to stop her from being a shy girl- woman! Damn, this place made you think in strange ways, no matter how old. Being a student in your forties was strange. Well, no matter; she was here for her degree and a new lease on life and may everyone rot in fiery agony.

So she stood from her quiet corner in the library, piled her books under her arm and went to the front desk. She stopped a couple of feet away, glasses dropping over her nose. Had she really missed that before? Both, the head librarian (a thin woman with short hair and red lips) and her assistant (a mousy, stout girl) were wearing sports bras with the word NEOPRENE embolsenned right on top in white, bold letters.

“Hey, Maggie,” Marissa waved, ample bosom displayed proudly, her belly showing the scars of a c-section and the extra twenty years of life she had on Margaret. “You okay there? You look like you suddenly remembered something you forgot?”

Margaret blinked, trying not to stare at the neoprene letters on the neoprene bra. She shook herself, took a step, and up close she could focus on Marissa’s wrinkles instead, and her grey hair. Grey hair cut short suited Marissa’s face. Margaret was suddenly self conscious of her own graying hair.

“Oh, no, yeah… Maybe. Just to take these books out today,” Margaret said quietly. The stout girl came up and began to pass Marissa’s book through the scanner and to stamp the inside cover.

Margaret, out of habit, just let her eyes go over the process, but this time it was cut abruptly short. Blushing somewhat, she turned back to Marissa’s bosom, finding that more embarrassing and weird, she looked at the woman’s face.

“Oh, you’re such a laugh, Margaret. Always a good laugh,”

For the first time did Margaret take note of Marissa’s accent. It was heavy in places, mostly the O’s and the AUGH’s and the spaces between words. Usually she focused on the conversation at hand, but Margaret didn’t know if this one was a conversation anyway so she just smiled. They would take it as she being quite off, you know—weird!—anyways. No hard feelings.

The stout girl gave Margaret her books, and for a second her concentration broke and she looked at the girl’s body and before she knew it Margaret was walking away from the two librarians wearing neoprene bra’s and daisy dukes and denim sneakers and tan pantyhose and she didn’t want to think about what else, so she just scratched at the back of her neck.

“If only I could bite into him,” Margaret thought about that triceps-deltoid relationship she had seen today. He had had short-cropped hair—military style—and a chest like a brick house. He had been polite, too, and not a wrinkle on his pretty face!

Margaret twisted her legs under her blanket, shuddering at the feel of soft cotton fabric over her nude body. A finger flicked her nipple through the soft, white sheets.

He had been really polite; all “yes, ma’am” and “have a good day” as he checked her engine and filled her tank.

Margaret made a sound.

“You could check my engine any time,” Margaret whispered, imagining her hand over her skin was really his hand inspecting the workings under her hood.

Margaret could smell herself now, and imagined how he would smell; oily, perhaps. Like a mechanic; a bit musky and a lot of grease. She would have to make him shower. Maybe she could bathe him herself, her own hands roaming the meatiness of his body. Taking off his shirt… Margaret blinked. Shirt. He had not been wearing a shirt.

Suddenly Margaret sat straight on her bed, the blanket coming off her body to reveal her erect nipples. She smacked her forehead with an open palm and called herself a stupid, distracted, horny ditz. Only now she realized it?

She had been driving home after her last lecture ended badly because she forgot to take most of her usual notes (at least she had her recordings) because there were too many legs wearing pantyhose and too many hips wearing tight denim. The radio played some angry song to match her mood, and she wondered why it was illegal to own a tank in times of traffic jam. Not moving for an age and a half, the noise in the car began just as her stomach began to rumble. After fifty more minutes of traffic and an increasingly off sound in the late afternoon blaze she decided that, yes, she was perhaps as hungry as the car. On the next junction, she turned right and stopped at a service station. Waiting there on a queue, Margaret pondered if to get the car filled now, or go for a bite and then do the car. The flickering bulbs from the station and the long queue made the decision for Margaret.

Service station food was good, for what it was: a hotdog overflowing with cabbage, a juice carton (coffee hit her too hard and fizzy drinks felt like someone was trying to get out of her stomach with a blowtorch). What she didn’t like was how the fellow at the register touched her hand when he handed her the hotdog. Just like that! What a nutter, to touch her. Luckily bad sights didn’t mess with Margaret that way, and she ate the food—good for service station food.

The queue had dwindled and she finished eating the hotdog. Margaret got into the car and hit the ignition. The sound that came from the car was obviously not human, yes, but it really didn’t belong in this dimension. She sighed. Tried again, the thing nearly drowned in its own existence. Margaret didn’t hit the wheel with tight fists, didn’t shout, she just let her forehead touch the wheel and sigh in absolute frustration. She just wanted to claw her neck open.

After a moment she heard a knock on her window. She rolled it down and she bit her lips, then shook her head, then tried not to bite her lips, but did again. All the while the young man had asked:

“Excuse me, ma’am, but I noticed yer in a twist, there. If you give me five, I’ll be over and done with them fill-ups and I’ll come right ovah to look at yer car, ’kay?”

Margaret must’ve stuttered something that was socially acceptable for the young man tipped his trucker’s cap and turned. Margaret followed his ass. At the time she had just followed the idea of the ass—so shapely and nearly bulbously cartoony. She felt like her teeth hadn’t bitten in any young man-meat for a long, long time. In hindsight, however, she realized why she could see so much of his behind; the young man had been wearing denim shorts; really tight, shapely shorts that matched the material of his sneakers.

“Such a ditz,” Margaret said as she went into her bathroom. She didn’t let her eyes of the young man as he filled up tanks and cleaned windshields. Margaret’s hands had been fidgety, naughty, exploring. When the delicious morsel of a man came back, he said something and Margaret nodded. He repeated it, slowly, and she jumped in her seat. He was very polite when he pointed to the button Margaret had never needed to push in this new, fancy car.

“Yeah, them electronic cars confuse me sometimes too. Engine’s mostly the same as ever, tho,” He said with a bright, bright, bright, oh-please-take-me-in-your-arms smile.

As he got working under the hood, Margaret got out of the car. She felt bad for sitting down when someone else worked. She checked her watch, too conscious of the time. But, then, any time spent looking at this boy’s lower back (and it was a smooth lower back at that) left her feeling satisfied in some ways and hungrier in others. She stood a little to the side, appearing to look at what he was doing and not at his body. Margaret knew how to look without looking like she looked. She had had plenty of bodies to practice on. Oh, college campuses, she gave thanks.

Margaret splashed water over her face, looking at herself in the bathroom mirror. The face wasn’t unattractive, no; she knew that very well. It wasn’t that she wasn’t hot; it was that she was really shy and didn’t care for people. Relationships scared her, but sex didn’t. Oh, the many young men who had worshipped her! Odd, how that worked. She splashed more cold water over her face, but it did nothing to cool her down. She sighed. Such a ditz, she was, not being capable of realizing what people were wearing because she was thinking with her pussy.

“Then again, he did not look bad in that outfit,” She mused as she snuck back into bed.

The image of the young man bent into her engine was there again. She saw his muscular body, a body used to labor and gyms and probably a kilo of beef every breakfast. His legs were greasy in places, and she wondered if he didn’t mind his tan pantyhose covered in car grease as much. He wore boots, she suddenly recalled and that combination of steel-toe boots and pantyhose on such shapely manly legs made it obvious that she would not be sleeping too much tonight. Or did she fantasize that too?

The young man spent just twenty minutes inside her car, but what twenty minutes! To see his shapely ass in those tiny shorts, to see his bare lower back, his hands. Oh, his hands and arms. And all the while the fellow explained, slowly, politely, nicely, and politely, what he was doing.

“Ya can start the car now, Ma’am,” He said and she could hear the upper case in his voice. It made her melt in a way.

The car started without trouble and then he topped up her tank and didn’t charge her for anything but the gas and a smile.

As she paid, Margaret couldn’t help but look at his chest, wrapped so tight in that neoprene top with the white embolsened letters proclaiming the material. It was obviously a girl’s top but it fit him so well and oh Margaret was moaning in her room and the blankets twisted around her ankles and her hands were everywhere.

“Yes,” She whispered to the night, to her imaginary lover with the trucker’s hat. “Fill my tank.”

It was after a lecture on the invasion of European settlers and the different cultural ideas of what “land usage” meant to both white and red peoples that Margaret realized she was getting quite good at blocking out the madness around her. It wasn’t just one or four girls and boys here and there wearing that outfit; there were whole groups!

It was the only thing that made sense, really. Men and women and even some young teenagers all over the city had started wearing the daisy dukes and the pantyhose and the neoprene tops and she had even seen some smoking giant cigars. Cigars! What!? It was obvious something was going on and she, like the others that weren’t wearing the outfit, had yet to be converted. She would’ve talked about this to someone but Margaret found it difficult to bring it up without blushing and stammering and no one else seemed to bring it up so maybe the conspiracy was everywhere and the way she slept made it impossible for her brainwaves to be hacked and—Breathe, breathe, breathe, Margaret, don’t go crazy.

The lecture ended and she was about to leave the hall when someone tapped her on the shoulder. It was a younger woman with shiny blonde hair and a bosom that fit her neoprene top like hand in glove. Or boob in boobglove. That. Whatever. Margaret tried not to stare.

“Oh, hi,” She said shyly.

“Hello, Margaret,” The girl said with a bright smile. There was a group behind her, some girls, mostly boys. All dressed the same. One boy fiddled with a thick, brown cigar in his hand. “You like stuff on, like, counter materialist culture, right?”

Margaret perked at that. “Yes, yes I do. Why?”

“There’s a thing tonight at the Shwarzht Gallery, around seven. A talk too,” She said helpfully.

Margaret thought about hyperventilating at the idea of a room full of people. But, then, she really hadn’t done that in sixteen years and it was just a vestigial bad habit.

“Really? Oh, I’ll be there. Thank you,” She said, finally.

“Just thought it’ll be something of interest. See you tonight. Tada.” And the girl turned around and her group began to file out.

Margaret made as if to ask another question. I mean, there they were, someone who was willing to talk about… well to talk to Margaret. By the time she made her mind the group was already out of the lecture theatre.

Margaret went out, nodding at the lecturer in his daisy dukes and neoprene top and decided that maybe she could hide from this madness until tonight. At least in an art gallery this new fashion would feel less like a Robert Heinlein book and more, well, like something that didn’t happen in a Robert Heinlein book.

The vegan restaurant was on a wide boulevard about two miles from the campus. It was where the downtown area turned into housing, turned into keep-your-hands-in-your-pockets-and-don’t-look-anyone-in the-eye area. Exactly the sort of place Margaret feelt at home in.

So she parked outside, looked about then went inside. Her heart skipped a beat.

“Hello, Margie, usual seat?” The man called from across the nearly empty café restaurant. He had a thick black beard and thicker glasses. He was wearing a plaid shirt and jeans, but the waitresses weren’t. Hooters was a real place in the world, so let people ignore the massive what? that was their outfits, but why the cigar? Why have your lips wrapped around it like it was some snorkel or hard—Margaret stopped that thought there and then.

“Don’t let it worry you. You’re here to eat. Eat, pay, and get out.” She mumbled.

Taking a deep breath, Margaret waved at the hipster-looking man. “Yes, please, David,” She said and made her way to a corner by a brick-textured wall. There she sat on a single sofa next to a single chair. She picked up the menu and read it just for the sake of it. Margaret knew that menu by heart.

After a while a waitress came over; Margaret could see her bright sneakers leading up a pair of long hosed legs and into the daisy dukes. Not for the last time did Margaret wonder why this outfit and not the Hooters uniform; was it copyright infringement? Was it some mind control conspiracy being too powerful but not powerful enough to pay royalties?

“A chickpea burger and a papaya smoothie, please,” Margaret said without looking up. She put her hands on her lap, together, and tried to hide her head in her shoulder. The shy act worked; the girl chirped and turned around.

Margaret relaxed, got her phone out, and didn’t really do much with it. She scratched at the back of her neck for a while before she stopped herself, graveness coming over her face. Yes, she would say it. Would she? Maybe.

By the time the girl came back Margaret, had the nerve to say it.

“Uhm… why are you…” Margaret pointed at the thick, long cigar in the girl’s mouth. She stared at the girl’s red lips wrapped succulently around the shape of it. Very phallic indeed. Margaret bit her lips at the thoughts she was thinking.

The girl raised an eyebrow and looked surprised at the question. She looked down at the length of unlit tobacco in her mouth, “Oh, this,” She took the cigar between two fingers. “There’s a reason for it, I guess, but I don’t know it. I just know that my mouth must be filled at all times, of course. I am a cigarslave.”

Margaret decided not to take on what that last one had even tried to mean. “And you’re not…” She looked around. “You guys are not smoking it, right?”

The girl brightened. “Oh, no. Not here. Against the law, you know. We smoke at home, privately, where we can lose ourselves with abandon,” The girl waved at a “No Smoking” sign on a pillar.

There were so many questions Margaret wanted to ask. Instead she said: “Oh,” and decided to eat.

When the waitress came to pick up the plates Margaret had the other part of the question neatly formulated in her mind.

“Excuse me, but doesn’t it strike you as odd what you’re doing, with the cigar and your outfit?” It tumbled out of her mouth a little too fast, a little too much like a forty year old judgmental bitch.

The girl thought for a second, piling the mess on her hands. “Well, in a way, yes,” She said. “But I am also a brainwashed cuntmind, so I can’t really think of what I am doing as anything but what I must do.”

Margaret froze for a moment. She let her operating system reboot, ignore the most difficult information and instead just said: “Wait, brainwashed?”

The girl giggled. “Well, duh, how else could I wear this and speak so clearly with the cigar in my slavemouth? Now, would that be all, ma’am? Can I get you anything else?”

Margaret shook her head and asked for the check and left, the thought of her ex-husband calling his own mouth that left her with conflicted feelings in her head and between her legs.

As she wrote everything one handed, Margaret’s right arm went up again.

“I’ll have to stop you there, or we’ll be stuck in this discussion for the rest of the evening. Come and see me in a bit and we can keep talking, okay?” The tall man on the podium gave Margaret a thumbs-up. “Now, thank you everyone for your attention and questions, hope you stay for a little drink and mingle afterwards.”

Margaret made a face, sighed and let her arm come down. She kept writing; certain that she got everything down in her shorthand. After a while she stood, deaf to the sound of mingling around her, and tried to see where the professor had gone to. He said something about staying for a drink, so he might stay. Should she wait a little bit, give him some respite from her questions? But what if he left? When would she have the opportunity of meeting the main contributor to her thesis?

So Margaret went to see if they had some juice at the makeshift bar at the Gallery’s café. On the way she bumped into a tall man, she apologized, and felt ashamed that she couldn’t get her eyes off the NEOPRENE wording on his chest. She blushed outwardly and gave a scream inwardly. The only respite was that, so far, he was the only person wearing that outfit. Margaret got a cranberry juice from a man dressed in a suit and tie, and somehow ended up herded into a group of people who looked somewhat familiar, perhaps from previous events at the gallery.

“Oh, you were grilling him, you was! The way you kept pulling out quote after quote… you’ve read him a lot, then?”

Margaret felt some color on her cheek but nodded. “My dissertation is on “shopping therapy” and where do consumer culture and mental health intersect. He’s the only one I’ve found so far that’s written about capitalist consumerism and psychology with a remotely similar angle.”

“You’re a student, then?” An older man in a suede jacket said, eyes cloudy, face wrinkled.

There was the low, awed whistle of an impressed mind that was seldom impressed. Margaret couldn’t place the easily impressed person amongst so many. She looked about and finally recognized some of the faces as from the university; professors and doctors most of them, a couple of students and their partners, it seemed. They were an amiable lot, really, and a lot of the staff members actually started asking questions of Margaret that were a little over her head. She soon found herself noting down these questions and their own suggestions for her research paper, however out of her subject matter as they were; for every useful article someone mentioned, there was another person suggesting she look into the economics of it all, or politics, or geography. Not for the first time she wondered if she should look into any of these angles to offer extra legs to the support table of her dissertation.

Soon enough the talk went somewhere else and Margaret kept herself on the edges of conversation, half looking around to see if she could spot the professor having a free moment she could grab. Instead she found herself staring through big, glass windows at the girl who had invited her. She was outside the gallery in a small group of people, all of them obviously dressed in neoprene and denim, mouths trailing the orange glow of lit cigars whenever they moved. The girl waved; Margaret waved back. Margaret took a deep breath, turned her attention back to the group of academics she was in and found the remote speck of courage to ask it:

“Say, do you guys notice the weird outfits some people started wearing?”

The talk went silent.

“Oh, fucksakefinallyfortheloveofcockingrabbitshit…” Someone said suddenly.

“Oh, god, I thought no one was noticing it.” A man said, putting a hand on his chest and bending low.

A ripple of exhalation went through the group.

One woman said, “Shit. I honestly thought everyone had gone insane and wasn’t paying attention; or that I had gone insane. I mean, no one even says anything!”

Margaret had a thought about that. People were weird, she knew, and weirder still in groups.

“I mean, they’re not harming anyone, are they? Live and let live, I say.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t sort curiosity out, does it? Or really explain what the hell is going on. Even faculty members are wearing it! Did you see Jessica Rowanowitz?” Said a woman around Margaret’s age with the scandalized tone of a scandalous woman. “She has been showing to the University like that for the past month! Any comment from the Dean or anyone? Not at all.”

“And if I let my beard get a bit shaggy I get axed in an eye blink,” Mumbled a man.

“And it is a great beard, John. It is.” A woman spoke as if to her little league championship best batter.

So, she wasn’t the only one noticing. Good, Margaret thought. Very good. It still didn’t answer any of the real questions. And the conversation she had started was obviously going towards things she didn’t quite care about so she politely excused herself and went to find the professor.

She found him coming from the bar holding six beers in his hands. Margaret offered to help and the two talked about their own particular research; his being more experienced, hers trying to build upon his. After a couple of phrases, however, it was obvious he was torn between talking to Margaret and talking to the people he was with. She could see the color on his cheeks and the slowness of his tongue; she wasn’t a prude, and felt a little heartbroken at seeing a hero in the first stages of inebriation, but people deserved their fun. Besides, they were in an art gallery and it was late—inebriation was natural. So she got the professor’s information and a promise to keep in contact.

Margaret waved goodbye and made her way back into the gallery to take one last look at some things she hadn’t had the chance to, before she called it a night. Standing by a sculpture made from old sewing machines she saw the girl who had informed her of the event. What was her name? Flannely? Chanell? Something hippie and butchered.

Margaret approached the statue and she could smell the thick smell of fine tobacco and something chilly, like an early morning on a mountain, coming off the girl. It wasn’t the disgusting taste of cigarettes, no, Margaret decided, cigarettes didn’t smell so nice. She noted that the blonde girl had an unlit cigar in her fingers and wondered if she called her fingers something like slavefingers or something weird like that and oh she didn’t want to think about that so she just said:

“Thank you for inviting me.”

The girl nearly tripped over backwards.

Margaret couldn’t help but laugh, but she caught the girl and helped to her feet.

“Oh, hey, Margaret! Didn’t see you there.”

Margaret smiled, “Good work, isn’t it?” She added, nodding towards the sculpture.

The blonde girl turned back to the big cat-like shape of the sewing machine sculpture. “Indeed it is. You look at work like this and find yourself in complete awe, and then you read that plaque that explains it and you have to look at it a whole hour to appreciate it fully, even if you don’t see what the artist meant.”

Margaret nodded at that, “Yeah, and the meaning is kind of there, if you squint.”

“Yeah… difficult to grasp.”

“Like some of Professor Rowanowitz’s lectures.”

The two laughed and walked around that part of the gallery for a little while, sharing little bits of conversation triggered by any of the found object sculptures they would look at. There was one in particular that caught their attention more so than the others: a twisting bonsai tree made from sheet metal and fabric and melted plastic from a hundred different sources, the plaque read; it had no explanation, and no title. Simply, the plaque proclaimed the hand that made it: The (Roaming) Artist. Margaret and the girl (Lannelly) took a step forward to stare at the sculpture. You could see the root system, handmade from woven metal and melted plastic, about a foot off the soil it was buried in. It nearly resembled rope; like the plastic and metal had been made into thread and then woven into a rope-like bonsai tree. From the roots to the top of the tree it moved from rusted metal and sun-bleached plastic whites, to newer metal sheen and bright plastic colors. The leaves were made of molded plastic, and there were tiny hand-carved fruits dangling from the tree.

“Wao,” They said in unison, walking around the person-tall sculpture over and over and over.

Silently, the two women looked at each other. Margaret realized that Lannelly’s eyes were a bright green, and her lips a deep, gorgeous pink. She looked at that young face without blinking for a moment before the two blushed and straightened. The gallery around them was emptying of people, they realized, and their watches and phones were two hours into the future from the moment they found the bonsai sculpture.

“Uhm, Margaret,” Lannelly began in a small voice. She was looking down at her fidgeting fingers. “There’s a thing at my campus house, if you’d like to come,” Lannelly talked with a faraway voice, and it seemed to Margaret that the blush on the girl’s cheeks was swallowing every sound coming out of those pretty lips. “It could turn into anything, but some lecturers are going. And…”

They shared another look. Had they been standing this close together? They blushed again and looked at the statue with its twisting knots of plastic and metal. What if people could be woven together like that? Different materials, but somehow related, forged, melted, twisted, handled into a shape stronger together for the joint collaboration of many things gave it power. Old and new, plastic and metal, natural and artificial, it all could work together as one. They could be together. They could be standing together staring at it and into each other’s—

The taste was sweet and like a cool breeze coming down into a grassy meadow from a faraway mountain. They licked their lips, pressing their mouths together, blushing like little girls, giggling. They looked at their hands in each other’s hands and then looked at each other in the eye again.

“A… thing?” Margaret whispered. Or thought she did. There wasn’t an answer and soon the two left the gallery hand in hand.

They held hands until they got into Margaret’s car. By the time they reached the campus parking lot they had stopped looking into each other’s eyes with fresh abandon and were now wondering if they should abandon that abandon. And, indeed, where had it come from?

“Uhm, do you mind if I smoke?” Lannelly asked with obvious nervousness.

Margaret wanted to shake her head but nodded instead.

It took her nearly a minute to light up the cigar. Her fingers shook, the matches wouldn’t catch. Margaret only noted the way Lannelly’s lips stopped shivering the moment the cigar touched them because she was staring at those pink lips. Maybe she had imagined it, but the girl sucked on that cigar like a pacifier, as if it was everything she needed to be herself again. She gave Margaret a nervous smile, and silently kept walking. In the dark, with only the light of the cigar to guide her, Margaret followed. They wove down around a garden at the bottom of which there was a row of Addams Family-style houses. The air was heavy with the scent of midnight flowers. Lannelly’s cigar smoke mixed so well with that of the desert night’s air. The way the blonde girl sucked on that thick cigar made Margaret think of many things she had been thinking about and she wondered if the cigar was, as Freud tried to cover up, not just a cigar.

Whatever they had wanted to say remained unsaid and finally the two reached the door to one of the houses. There was music playing on the inside, and a couple of people on the second and third storey balconies. With key in her hand, Lannelly stopped and said:

“If you’re uncomfortable with this, I mean, it isn’t anything important. It is just a party, really. I don’t even know what will be going on.”

Margaret didn’t listen. She just kept looking at that unlit mammoth of a phallic symbol in her mouth wondering how she could speak so clearly. Her eyes went to the girl’s eyes and the two locked stares, blushed, both whispering a very quiet phrase about being together. Margaret must’ve nodded for Lannelly put out the cigar with something she had in her pocket (how could anything fit into those tight denim shorts was a fleeting question for Margaret) and opened the door.

Margaret at first thought she had walked into a smoking den; such was the thickness of the smoke. Then she smelled the place proper; yes, there was that hint of tobacco, like the scent off Lannelly’s hair, but it was the scent of old things trapped inside the walls, not that of cigar smoke tarnishing the furniture. There was a watery freshness to the smell that made Margaret think of fog. She stepped into the room, feeling the fresh, cool lick of the smoke touching her legs through her skirt. She looked down, seeing everything below her knees swallowed in a sea of strange colors. There was a flow to the mist, as if coming from somewhere deeper in the house; Margaret followed it with her eyes, noting that it seemed to gain color and move faster the farther into the house it was. The place was cold, too, and the sweat on her back began to cool down and made her shiver. Air conditioner set to max, probably—a blessed thing, with so many bodies in one house. Music was playing, but no matter how hard she tried Margaret couldn’t place it. She blamed her years of seclusion from young people and thought no more of it. The night was already too strange to think logically.

So Margaret stepped into a house as a normal woman for the last time.

Lannelly suggested they move into one of the living rooms. They navigated hand in hand around people, saying hello here and there, and soon enough Margaret was sitting down on a two person sofa as Lannelly offered her an apple juice she must’ve picked up from somewhere as Margaret had a small sensorial overload. The strangest part of it all wasn’t that she was the only woman without bearing tan hosed legs, or that she could stare at all the young men’s denim-covered crotches without worrying too much, but how mundane it all had become. Colored mist flowing on the floor, a house with open doors and windows that was probably fifteen to twenty degrees cooler than the outside air, a song that could be described as oceanic playing deeper inside the house; it all was so very matter-of-fact for the people in the house, it seemed. And yet everyone talked normally, casually. No one lit a cigar unless they were outside, and that smell didn’t bother Margaret as badly as it should, she realized.

“I am going upstairs to freshen myself, Margaret, I’ll be back in a bit,” Lannelly said and then got swallowed by the crowd, all the while looking back at the older woman as if reluctant to leave her side.

Margaret sipped her juice for a while and looked around the room. There were two drunken boys, loud and obnoxious and deserving of a spanking that would welt so badly that Saint Peter would raise an eyebrow at the scars on their souls’ bottoms. She pressed her lips together, wondering how fast a red their bottoms would get if struck with her paddle. There was a man she recognized as a professor of philosophy drinking straight from a wine bottle. She thought of biting his arms. When she pressed her legs together and realized just what was going on she stood and struck a conversation with a man about her age. He wasn’t in such good shape as the younger men, she noted, but, then, who past the age of forty was? He had good arms, and obviously did a lot of running or cycling, judging by those shiny, nyloned calves. Not her preferred morsel but perhaps if and just what in the hell was she thinking about some stranger she had just met!?

“Say, does this smell alcoholic to you?” She asked of the man, suddenly.

He obliged and shook his head. “Not at all. I doubt anyone spiked you, dear. Too many staff members here for the party to turn into that sort of party,” He said in a lyrical voice.

Then what sort of party is this? She thought but instead she just gave him thanks. Fuck, she was feeling so frisky ever since she looked at that statue. Speaking of which, where was Lannelly?

“I know it is a boring question, but what’s your field?”

Margaret gave an old, tired, used-up giggle. “Oh, I was a nurse for fifteen years. Shit happened, and now I am studying sociology. Wanted to do teach, but I accidentally ended up writing a paper on the behavior of nurses and now I am shoulder-deep in a new paper.”

The man’s eyebrows went up; to her credit, she did not laugh at the sight of the graying man wearing the neoprene bra thing.

“Ah, a late comer to academia,” He chuckled. “Yes, it does that, it does indeed. Swallows you too hard.”

And so their conversation went for a good half an hour until—as such things go—the man excused himself to get another drink and got swallowed by the crowd. By then Margaret was getting tired. But wherever she turned there was a young man with a pretty face to make uncomfortable by licking her lips, as well as very good conversation. Margaret was teasing a long-haired young man in a suit and tie just with her fingers and lips when Lannelly came back, holding a cup of coffee. Margaret didn’t want it but… Oh, what the hell, live a little! Margaret took the mug in her hands, the long-haired man completely forgotten. She stared at the girl’s face—make up reapplied, skin washed, and a delicious flowery scent coming off of her. She stared into at the pink lips, into the bright green eyes and the mind they showed and realized, seeing something so pretty and great. What was it about this young woman that gave Margaret such a feeling of…

Damn that statue! She thought, and then, How could it be the statue? Crazy thoughts, this place was giving her.

The mist kept pooling by her feet and it was so easy to get lost in Lannelly’s eyes as the younger woman spoke to her coffee mug and avoided meeting Margaret’s eyes. Something clicked inside Margaret’s chest, like a rock dropping into a pond. For a second she saw the statue of melted plastic and metal and all she wanted to do was stare at this pretty, young woman’s body. Then the music came on, some pop-y thing she immediately hated; she saw a half-smile on Lannelly’s face, and the younger girl shrugged. Someone shouted over the music, and told them to put on proper dance music. Suddenly the whole place was different. Margaret stood up to the beats of jazz, grabbed Lannelly’s hand to the beat of swing, and by the time she realized she had lost Lannelly in the crowd and was dancing with two young men salsa had come on. She honestly thought someone had spiked her, for she was having too much fun, letting herself too loose and who the hell cared!

So Margaret danced salsa and some classics from when she was a medical student. And she danced with professors and students and even some people who had showed up out of the blue because the music was good and the company better. Mostly she danced with people wearing neoprene tops, and once or twice with girls dressed in dresses and some boys in suits. She danced to think, to wonder her sudden infatuation with the young woman. As she twirled and sidestepped she would catch Lannelly awkwardly flailing her arms to a song that didn’t match any sense of rhythm.

It was well past one in the morning when the party began to die. She sat down on a sofa and huffed loudly.

Suddenly she jumped awake. The house was silent. The image of Lannelly’s creamy legs entwined around her head faded from her mind. A hand was touching her shoulder, offering her a glass of water. Margaret smiled at Lannelly and took the drink graciously. The two spoke softly, but it was obvious Margaret was way past her bedtime.

“I’ll get you some blankets, okay?” Lannelly said but Margaret didn’t hear it as her head laid on the girl’s lap and she began to snore softly.

The smell of pancakes woke Margaret. She breathed in deeply and managed to get off the sofa, taste the cavity-sweet flavor of her mouth before yawning loudly. She cleaned the drool off her face with her sleeve.

“Oh, hi Margaret, I made you breakfast,” Lannelly said from somewhere in the house. “There’s a shower-bathroom on the second floor at the end of the hall, if you’d like to freshen up.”

Margaret nodded and made her way upstairs. She felt groggy. Not too sleepy, blessedly, but groggy enough. She wondered how long it’ll be before she could fix her schedule after last night.

She showered, looked at her panties, smelled them, and decided to go commando under her skirt. She heard people about on the top floor as she descended the stairs and sat down for pancakes and eggs. Lannelly was dressed like last night, but looking refreshed and with her long blonde hair freshly combed. She had a cigar in her slavemouth or whatever she called it. Margaret stared at those lips sucking on the long cigar, and was happy to feel a curiosity but not a wrenching, wanting need to kiss them as she had last night. She was still feeling other things, however.

“Thank you,” Margaret said as she sat down to eat.

Lannelly sat down across, offering some fresh orange juice.

“Good party last night, eh? You danced so much!” Lannelly said, smiling.

Margaret blushed and gave herself some time to think by drinking the juice. “Yeah,” She began with a reluctant smile. “I haven’t really done that in a long, long while,” She sipped her juice. “I j-just have problems with that, sometimes. But last night it j-just felt right, you know?”

Lannelly nodded. “Well, I do but not really,” She shrugged. “I can’t dance.”

Margaret raised an eyebrow. “Really? You saying that after how you danced last night?”

The young woman nodded with eyes on her plate. It was then that Margaret noticed how Lannelly would avoid looking her in the eye. “I really can’t. You saw me try to dance a little bit before I disappeared. Can’t remember that, can you?”

Margaret pressed her lips together. “Okay, yeah. So, why don’t you dance?” The food went into Margaret’s mouth. Only then did she realize how hungry she was.

“Never learned how. In parties I like to drink and talk and play games. But dancing eludes me, no matter how drunk I get I can never get uninhibited enough.”

“Now, that’s stupid thinking, if you pardon my language,” Margaret went on, “I didn’t drink one drop and I danced. It isn’t about inhibitions, but about having a good time. You might not be able to twerk it, but dancing is not just about steps. Sometimes you j-just have to let the music move you like only you can move. Trust me, I was there once.”

The blonde woman nodded.

“Enjoyable mistakes are what lead us to new things. If you start moving, maybe you’ll learn how to dance. And what if other people stare? Who cares? Enjoy the serendipity of it all.”

“Like… Looking at that statue?”

Margaret stopped with a spoonful of eggs close to her mouth.

“What… do you mean?”

“Well, the bonsai tree thing—the statue—I don’t know what it is about it, but I’d like to see it again. With you, I mean.”

Margaret remembered the statue—colors and materials woven together, together, together—the image engrained in her brainstem, the silent secrets it spoke to her amygdale. A warm blanket wrapped tightly around her.

“See it again. With me?”

“Yes.” Lannelly was looking at Margaret right in the eyes. Endless green staring, searching… Such pretty eyes, such beautiful, kissable lips.

“I… I would also like to… to look at it with you.” Margaret found herself saying.

“Look at the statue with you.” Lannelly repeated.

“Yes, to have you close when I look at the statue.” Margaret added.

Breakfast forgotten, they just stared. Their hands found each other and they just looked into their eyes. Together. Entwined. Be together. One another. Together. There were secrets in her head, Margaret realized; stories from a tree. And she didn’t care, she was here, together, with such a beautiful young woman.

“Have you close when I look at the statue.”

“Yes.” Holding hands so tightly, longingly.

“Embrace when we see the statue.”

“Be together when we see the statue.”

“Be together…”

“When we look at the statue.”

And the two stood up there and then, breakfast nearly finished. They held each other’s hand in hand and began to make their way across the ground floor, past the living room where Margaret had slept and into a dining room. There Margaret felt something pull her back abruptly. Lannelly was frozen in place, staring at something on the dining table.

“Oh…” The blonde whispered. It was the voice of a child whose ice cream falls on the floor.

Margaret felt her eyes moving really slowly, as if through zero-g molasses, and laid eyes on what Lannelly was looking at: it was a red box of such polish that she could see her reflection on its surface from ten paces away. It had a lock, bright and polished, and it looked like the sort of thing you wore gloves to handle.

“Oh? What’s going on?” Margaret asked after a while. Words were difficult, suddenly.

Lannelly licked her lips, fidgeted in place. Her free hand went into one of her tiny, impossible pockets. She pulled the cigar out of her daisy dukes and wrapped eager lips around it. Finally, she said: “It wants your input.”

The top of the box flew up and backwards without a sound. It smacked the table, a sound of splintering, cracking wood. The sound of a hundred whales speaking through a fog horn made the house vibrate. From within the box a column of colors floated upwards, defying gravity, only to fall down like a familiar mist. The room began to cool down, fast.

Margaret let go of Lannelly’s limp hand, approaching the box with a curiosity she knew wasn’t entirely healthy.

“Oh, Margaret,” Lannelly’s voice was far away, wistful, if a little wanton. “You’ll love being a—oooh, hmm—cuntmind like me,” Margaret heard the young woman moan. “You will be perfected and help us in the search.”

Margaret didn’t really catch that last one over the sound of conspiratorial whales coming from inside the box, and footsteps above. Margaret was torn between looking into the floating mass of colors she couldn’t pry her eyes away from, and the men and women she heard pour into the room. The room filled, and Margaret stared, and then the whale song moaned.

“Help us in the search,” Margaret heard them all in unison. Groggy and hangover voices and clear voices all merged into one.

Margaret turned to look at Lannelly, at the many faces in the room. Everyone was wearing that outfit of tan pantyhose and neoprene top and cigar between lips and tight daisy dukes. All of them looked sleepy and groggy, with bed lines on their faces and rumpled hair of the hangover eyes. And they looked to be, definitively, and without a doubt, brainwashed.

Margaret couldn’t move, she realized. The box was calling to her, telling her things she didn’t want to hear. “What is… going on?” She whispered.

“You are being asked to give us input, Margaret. To add to our cuntminds, to help us improve so the search can continue,” Lannelly spoke from the circle around Margaret and the box.

The boys and girls in the room all moaned the word: “Cuntminds.”

Margaret should’ve been afraid; frightened, screaming, even, but Lannelly was here. Her body walked forward and stuck her hand deep into the box, past the foot-high pillar of swirling, colored mist. There was a whole world inside that box, a cold, soft world you could lose your name in. At the bottom of that nothingness she felt something sleek and sticky that made her whole body vibrate as if she had just crossed from one reality to the next. Maybe she had. Her old life died then and there, and a new one had just begun, something in the pit of her stomach told her.

Margaret pulled, and the object didn’t budge at first. There was something holding it inside the box, or perhaps pushing it away from this reality and back where it belonged. She pulls again, and her arm began to come out of the colored mist slowly. The whale song sings, and so does the group: “And now you become a blank slate,” They say in unison.

Finally Margaret pulled the object from the box. There was another low, humming vibration inside her bones, her marrow, her cells as the object left her hand and dropped on the floor. She hadn’t meant to let go, but her body couldn’t hold it anymore.

Margaret felt her skin tingle. Lannelly was behind her. “And now you become a blank slate,” The young woman whispered in Margaret’s ear and then it was done.

Margaret undressed. She should’ve felt ashamed, abashed, anything really, anything at all! Her breasts sagging, the stretch marks on her legs and belly, the wrinkles wherever she had made mistakes marking her like rings marked the age of a tree. She stood naked in the middle of the room, feeling the cooling, transdimensional air touching her body. Lannelly touching her body. Margaret shivered not from the cold.

A sound came from within the Box’s many realms.

“And now you become a cuntmind,” The room intoned.

Margaret knew what they meant in a way. She looked down at the black object Lannelly was holding. When did she pick it up? Margaret stared at the black latex dildo pants in her hands, understanding what they meant.

“You’re all wearing these?” She asks slowly.

“Oh, yes, Margaret,” Lannelly’s voice was dripping with the sort of thing Margaret had been craving since her divorce. “We’re cuntminds. Our cunts are filled, back and front.”

“Cuntminds,” The room moaned.

Margaret nodded at the men in the group; she could see nipples and erect cocks through neoprene tops and daisy duke shorts. “Even them?”

The fact that she was going along with this didn’t strike Margaret as odd. After all, what was there to resist? If they had all been brainwashed what made her any different?

“All cunts must be filled to be a cuntmind, Margaret. Even boys have boicunts. And their cocks are also wrapped tight in a vibrating pouch. It is always on. Oh, it makes us so horny,” Lannelly’s mouth was close to Margaret’s ear. “That is what being a cuntmind is. To be so horny you think with your cunt.”

Margaret shivered and began to pull up the latex shorts up her leg. She was wet, she realized with a little bit of horror. She was wet and as horny as Lannelly seemed to be and she really wanted to feel it. God! She was shivering from anticipation.

“So horny all the time and it never stops or lets us cum and the only respite we had—have—is being a cigarslave, for a cigar in your mouth lets you feel as if you’re cumming and it makes it all bearable.” Lannelly said, her own lips wrapped, sucking hard on the long, thick cigar in her mouth. Margaret finally realized that the girl spoke, clearly, crisply, even with her lips wrapped close around the cigar. “Oh, fuck, Margaret,” The young woman licked Margaret’s neck, pressed her neoprene-covered breasts against her back. “I don’t know what that statue did to me but I fucking want to fuck you right here and now.”

Margaret felt the twin intruders inside her. They felt glorious. They felt like young man’s cock, thick, throbbing, so filled with blood as to make it painful for him. Later one, when Margaret tried to remember the event, she wondered if it had been the latex cocks or Lannelly’s words that made her cum.

“Oh, god, yes, me too—“ Margarey moaned. “I want to be together with you. Looking at the statue. Together. I don’t know why, how, I like men. I really, really like young dick. But, fuck, you- You! God, you…” Margaret was rambling then, legs shaking. The room was full of the colored mist, it was cold, colder than a room full of people had any right to be. It took her a moment but she stepped towards the box once more. Lannelly looked on, eagerly, grinding her hips against the air and her hand. The Box made another sound and Margaret knew what to do. As she pulled out the pantyhose from the bottom of the many realities inside the Box the room said: “And now hose goes on, willpower goes off,” They droned.

“And now the hose goes on, and my willpower goes off,” Margaret whispered as she put on the nylons. They were smooth, soft, shiny, perfect, perfect—perfectly enslaving. They were so nice and it made her feel like worshipping something with all the self and soul she had left.

Lannelly was rubbing her legs together, probably remembering her own conversion, probably imagining a future.

“And now you become a pair of legs to display and tease,” They all said. Then she pulled a pair of daisy dukes and the matching sneakers from the box. She put them on, thinking how much she would dance from now on, how much she could freely raise her legs in front of young men. For a moment she wondered if she could still do the splits.

“I am a pair of legs,” Margaret whispered, shaking her ass at some of the young men in the room as she put on the denim shorts. She had never teased—no, she had. She had teased, worse than this, not so obviously, real teasing. This was outright whoring compared to what she knows how to do. It felt different and right. She turned to see if Lannelly was staring and the young woman was staring and Margaret felt heat spread from her toes to her crotch. She giggled to herself.

The shorts and hose pressed the dildos deeper inside, deeper, deeper. They vibrated, a low hum that matched the song of whales from another mathematical reality. She shook her ass, pressed her hand against the front, pressing the phalluses deeper, frustratingly. Oh! Oh! She felt it. So frustrating, not being able to touch… Her cuntmind watered at the thought. Her cuntmind melted and she didn’t catch the next thing the room said.

“And now your tits are advertisement for the neoprene clothing industrial complex,” They intoned.

Lannelly guided Margaret’s hand back into the box. The young woman held the older woman too close, too tenderly, too hungrily. Margaret didn’t mind. She liked the warmth the blonde gave off, made the understanding and stories coming into her mind all the sweeter.

She pulled the neoprene sports bra from the Box. It was heavy, thick, with bold, white letters on the front. Margaret knew for a fact that it would fit better than her own skin. Margaret wondered who had come up with that idea; who in this group of converted people has such a specific sexual fantasy as to have it manifest like this. Margaret simply said, “My tits are advertisement,” and put on the bra. Lannelly’s face was red, her eyes faraway; her lips whispering and repeating and whispering again.

“And now you become cigarslave,” The room intoned as the scent of tobacco and wonderful things filled the room. As she held the long cigar in one hand Margaret began to feel her mouth water and realized just how empty and lonely her lips felt. So, she put the cigar in her mouth and finally understood what those lips were for.

“I am a cigarslave,” She said with perfect enunciation, even if her lips were sealed close around the cigar.

Smoothly Margaret moved a hand into the non-existent pockets of her daisy dukes. The motion was familiar—strike the match, catch the flame, puff and huff—as she lighted her cigar. She breathed in the smoke, expecting to choke and cough but she didn’t. The smoke filled her lungs, her mind. It tasted wonderful. She breathed out, smoke swirling down her nostrils, and she wondered if it was the same thing as the cold mist touching her legs.

The sensation of hands on her bare belly, on her legs and her head brought grounded Margaret. Slowly she pulled away from the swirling smoke and turned to look at Lannelly; the young woman was kissing her and touching her everywhere. The blonde smelled of tbacco and the effects of the Box and things that Margaret wanted to taste.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god!” Lannelly moaned. “You’re ready. Yes, you’re one of us. You can help in the search. Oh, fuck, that’s so hot. But why is it hotter with you? Why do I want you so much? Fuck, I am not gay but I want to embrace you so badly and—

“Look at the statue together,” Margaret interrupted.

The older woman took the cigar out of her mouth, slowly. Lannelly’s pink lips were so ripe. They bit their lips, tried to look away from their endless stares, failed, and shared a deep kiss.

When they parted the people in the room were kneeling. The two women blinked and turned to look at the Box, suddenly aware of the sound. It was singing.

“Oh,” Lannelly said, slowly. She looked as if someone was taking her puppy away from her. She looked at the Box, then at Margaret, and then, slowly, a smile split her face. “It… it wants your input,”She said, slowly.

And then she knelt and waited like the others.

Margaret put the cigar back in her mouth. Her hand shook as she stared at the swirling mass of unquestionable colors. She nearly split the cigar in half between her lips.

“More fantasies. More perfection. More fantasies. More perfection. More fantasies. More perfection.” The droning was powerful, reverential, and eagerly religious. The room filled with a cadence: the song from the box and the chanting from its servants.

Margaret puts her hand inside the many realms the Box held. The pillar of falling, swirling mist swallowed her. It cooled her chest where her body split it in half, yet it kept its shape undisturbed. She felt the whale song inside her fingertips, inside her knuckles, inside her skin. There was a question hiding inside the push-pull gravitational forces of every atom. In response, she imagined something she hadn’t imagined since the divorce.

“And now we become like librarians, smart and sexy,” The whole room intoned as Margaret put a pair of red glasses on her eyes. She didn’t need them, of course, but of course she felt like she could see better now. They were red, like the box, rimmed with the same unfathomable wood the Box was made of. They had beads tying them to her neck, like a necklace. And then she pulled her long hair into a tight bun on top of her head, completing the look.

There was a ripple in the room. Like a mirage forming, like the very matter of the house had turned to equations and back to matter in such a small space of time that it was unquestionable. Margaret looked at the group of people in the room, all wearing red glasses and with their hair in fat, heavy buns on their heads.

She had never felt so horny, so right, and so hungry for many things. Suddenly the Box closed itself. The temperature began to match that of the folk in the room and the mist soon dissipated. And just like that the fog went away. Those with hangovers went upstairs; those with responsibilities left the house. Soon enough Lannelly and Margaret were alone in the dining room, holding each other.

“Welcome,” Lannelly giggled, holding the older woman tightly.

“Oh… thank you,” Margaret said, there wasn’t anything to say, really. She had been brainwashed, and there had been no escaping it. It felt good, though. She could feel Lannelly’s legs pushing against her pussy, pushing the low rumble of the vibrator further inside. This was so weird, but so right. Lannelly shifted in her arms, and suddenly Margaret squealed. She rubbed her crotch against Lannelly’s leg, slowly, then fast, then faster.

“I am a good cuntmind, I am a goodcuntmind, I am agoodcuntmind, a goodcuntmindgoodcuntmindgoodcuntmintd… Ooooh!” She whispered over and over and over. Soon she was shaking, biting her lips. Had she not been embracing Lannelly she would’ve fallen.

“Oh, fuck… That was hot,” Margaret breathed heavily, fast.

“I know… and knowing that we have been brainwashed not just by the Box makes it all the hotter.”

Margaret didn’t know about that. She had just been converted into a cuntmind, a cigarslave, a display for the neoprene clothing industry, a pair of legs to tease and display, and a sexy all-knowing librarian all in the space of five minutes. Maybe there was more to this brainwashing thing than she was seeing, or feeling, or hearing, or… Okay, she would have time to think about the Box later. Right now, she really just wanted to get out of the house.

“So, can we go and see that statue now?” Margaret said through a blush.

Lannelly looked at Margaret the same way some young men looked at her when she spanked them and it was then that Margaret realized that, brainwashed or not, she might like this bisexuality thing.

“Actually…” Lannelly began and then moved forward.

Lannelly’s lips tasted of lip-gloss and of that sensation of relieve you get after quenching a thirst you didn’t know you had. Margaret kissed back, long fingers finding the girl’s lower back. Lannelly arched her back, pressing her neoprene breasts against the older woman’s neoprene chest. They moaned into each other’s mouths and then Margaret broke the kiss. She looked into the blonde girl’s eyes before grinning wolfishly. Lannelly made a sound as Margaret’s lips nibbled on her neck, her earlobe and everything in between.

“I… can we move to the bedroom?” Lannelly said in a breathy whisper.

“No,” Margaret said forcefully and with a hungry smile.

She pushed the blonde woman to the floor. The carpet was still cold from the mist. Margaret hit her head against the dining table, but she didn’t pay it any mind, neither did she the crashing flower vase. She only had attention for the girl pinned under her.

The way the older woman looked at her made Lannelly think of a headmistress and it made her melt all the more. She leaned back, letting the older woman’s neoprene covered chest rest on her belly as Margaret’s lips explored her collarbone, the neoprene over her breasts, and then the bare skin of her belly.

“You know, I’ve never done this with something so… distracting inside me,” Margaret said, a hand running up and down Lannelly’s stockinged leg. Why do I feel so… possessive? Like I must wrap myself her and never let go.

“Oh? Really?” Suddenly Lannelly opened her legs and wrapped them around Margaret’s waist. “What if I teach you a thing or two?”

Margaret shivered at that, bit her lips, and simply looked at Lannelly with a wolfish grin. “Oh, young lady, you better teach me right or I’ll have to punish you.”