The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I

Carlos Olivos was a smart man from a small town who’d made a smart business decision in his early twenties to marry a young heiress. Her name was Christina. Her parents had died when she was young, leaving her more money than she could need in a lifetime. She was raised by boarding schools and nannies, tutors and butlers. Her blood was so blue she was her own low pressure zone on the weather map.

When he first met her in college she was a knockout, highly intelligent, and the most socially clueless nasty bitch he’d ever met. But Carlos had grown up poor and wasn’t naïve in the ways of the world — if he was ever going to get any of his entrepreneurial ventures off the ground he’d need to rocket up the social ladder, not trudge up the corporate handicap ramp. He covered the massive chip on his shoulder that he held for rich brats and turned on the charm.

Being so socially cruel, she never saw him coming. She knew she was beautiful. 5′ 7″, sculpted and bronzed, with cherry auburn curls that softly rolled passed her shoulders just above her supple-yet-perky C-cups. Cutting edge fashion wardrobe and a personal stylist, she didn’t understand why men didn’t fall head over heels for her. So when Carlos said all the right things, opened all the right doors, picked up all the right checks (and unbeknownst to her, busting his ass working to afford her) she was charmed but not surprised. After all, in her mind she was worth it. Within the year they were married and Carlos didn’t even finish school. Infused with her millions he patented a few ideas, pushed some innovative new web apps he’d been working on, and eight years later his money nearly rivaled hers.

But what had begun for him as a necessary evil had become an ice-cold-bitch around his neck. At age 29 she was haranguing him into an early grave. Despite his success, the only words she ever had for him were bilious and filled with contempt. Once she’d fallen comfortably into the marriage, any pretenses she might have thrown up came tumbling down. She was cruel, selfish, and manipulative. It got worse and worse until just before her own 29th birthday she actually had his accounts frozen while he was away on a VERY important business trip, and when his funds were declined in front of the client she waited for the client to go back to his hotel, where she seduced him, revealed the affair to the client’s wife, thereby ruining his viability as a potential investor (not to mention his marriage) by tying him up in one of those page six newspaper-making divorce stories.

Carlos’ newest venture was risky and intricate, and up until then the man that Christina had seduced was his only viable backer. She’d set him back years. All because he said they’d only be able to spend a week in Switzerland for her birthday instead of two. It was the final straw for Carlos. Something had to be done.

Through the grapevine of the rich and the egg-headed he’d heard of a man called “The Fixer.” A man that could make anything you wanted to happen, happen. A few anonymous, third-party leads later and Carlos had, with an insurmountable amount of cash, ensured a solution to both his problem wife and a little bit of something for himself as well.

A few weeks after Christina’s birthday vacation he “surprised” her with a second trip to an exclusive and not-well-known ski-chalet. She bitched about not getting the second week in Europe and snatched the tickets from his hand before going into the back-closet to order one of her maids around in packing.

Carlos had their car brought around and waited in the driver’s seat for her.

“What, we’re DRIVING there?” she spat as she came out of their building.

“It’s not far and it’s secluded, so there’s no real point in flying,” Carlos half-lied. It was QUITE far, but it was remote. And air-travel wouldn’t really fit into the plans.

“Why isn’t Julio taking us?” she cracked.

“I thought it might be fun, just you and me on a little road trip.” Carlos grinned. Christina scoffed like a bull and minced her way around and into the passenger’s side. “Half soy, half goat’s milk cocoa bean latte?” Carlos offered. Christina grudgingly accepted, and off they went.

It wasn’t until about an hour outside the city that the drugs in the coffee started to take effect. Carlos made it to one of the Fixer’s workhouses just after dark. The Fixer, a doctor as nondescript as he is brilliant, set to work on Christina right away. Carlos was a smart guy, but the Fixer’s yammering on about gene memory programming and how it was light years ahead of hypnotic suggestion went right over his head. All Carlos knew is that he stayed in a fairly Spartan overnight “suite” (a twin bed in a room that looked like it used to be an office, with a small bathroom offside and little else, not even a tv) for about 26 hours while the Fixer gave Christina injection after injection, treatment after treatment. But this was all just phase one. Phase two wouldn’t begin until they got to Cranterville.

II

Christina awoke in a cold room, swaddled in mismatched sheets and thin blankets piled on top of each other. Groggily she swung her legs around and nearly fell out of the bed—it was a full-sized bed, a size she didn’t even know existed. She rubbed her temples and wondered what had happened, but when she stumbled into the nearby bathroom (the flickering green fluorescent light had been left on) she found a note taped to the mirror.

“Babe, important job came up. I know you haven’t been feeling well, and it kills me to leave you like this when I know you gots them headaches from the accident, but you’ve got Curt’s number if you need anything. He should be by to check on you. I should be back in a week. Two tops.

Love ya,

Carlos.”

An impertinent anger rose into Christina’s conciseness, but the moment it did she felt a wave of nausea. She splashed some water on her faced and fumed a bit that Carlos would take her on... vacation? Or something... but that he would leave when she was sick? This did not make her happy. But more than unhappy, she was groggy. She stumbled out of the tiny, dingy bathroom and down a very, very short hallway that opened up into a combo kitchen-living room. The carpet was thick shag, putrid orange in color. An old television with a series of boxes and antennae sat opposite a sunken brown couch with a mottled, cheap throw draped across the back. There were stains on the counter, various food stuffs here and there, a few dirty dishes in the sink.

‘What an awful resort,’ Christina thought to herself. But as soon as the thought came up, another wave of nausea. ‘Maybe I just need to eat something.’ She went to the fridge and the cupboard but didn’t find much that wasn’t frozen meals or boxed mac ‘n cheese. In the end she settled for (or was it craved?) some off-brand Fruit-Loop type cereal that she found in a bag under the sink. For the next few hours she simply sank into the old couch, munching on cereal until it was gone and getting quietly absorbed in the snowy reception of one of the 5 channels she could get on the old set.

She was well into “The Price Is Right” when a knock at the door jolted her back to reality. The empty cereal bowl fell from her lap onto the carpet, but she hardly noticed as she shuffled in dingy pink bunny-slippered feet (’did I fall asleep in those last night?’ she thought to herself) to the kitchen door. She knew it wasn’t the front door, the TV was in front of it and the door showed no signs that it had been used as an entrance or exit in quite some time.

“Hey, darlin’!” a gruff, middle aged man in layers of flannel and a John Deere hat proclaimed as she opened the door. Steam rose from their breath as he stamped his feet a bit on the meager wooden steps. “Well, aren’t you going to let me in?”

Christina starred at him as if trying to remember something she’d forgotten a long time ago. “...Curt?”

“Well, shit, you done won the boobie prize, Chrissy!” Curt guffawed and continued to stomp the snow from his feet as he made his way inside. He was burly, 10 o’clock shadow, but seemed genial and not... unattractive, Christina thought. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she knew him.

Curt proceeded to set some grocery bags on the counter. “Girl, you must be worse for the wear. You are plum out. Of. It!” Curt laughed to himself again. “You go hunker back down and I’ll put on a fresh pot for ya. Pick ya right up.”

Christina couldn’t argue with that. She reabsorbed herself into the fuzzy television for a few minutes while Curt shuffled around in the kitchen. He eventually brought her some coffee before plopping familiarly into the threadbare Lay-Z-Boy. She made a quiet ‘thank you’ noise and sipped the coffee as Curt reached into the grocery bag by his feet, fishing out a six pack of Budweiser and a carton of Salem’s. He proceeded to crack the beer for himself before tossing the carton to Christina.

Christina was awash in conflicting thoughts and emotions. ‘Beer? In the afternoon? Beer at all? (a beer does sound good). Cigarettes? Are these for me? (of course). This room, this house, it’s disgusting (but sure cozy).’

Curt changed the channel to local news as Christina gaped for a few moments more before finally saying, “but, but I don’t smoke.”

Curt gave her a cagy fish-eye before guffawing again. “Chrissy, what are you talkin’ about? Whose do you think those are?” he asked, pointing to the large, ugly ceramic ashtray on the coffee table, half full of cigarette butts. “Carl asked me to bring these things by cuz he knew you was laid up and he felt plum awful about it. These are yer usual groceries, he said.”

Christina leaned forward and picked up an open pack of cigarettes from the table. She dreamily looked inside the soft package, there were three cigarettes shaking around in there. With a ‘snap’ she heard a lighter and looked up to see Curt light his own cigarette, blowing the smoke indiscriminately at the television, sipping his beer, watching a local color story about maple syrup. Chrissy... Christina was overwhelmed with a sense of the familiar and, picking up the lighter from the table, follwed suit. As she drew on the cigarette (but she didn’t smoke, did she?) she felt cares, worries, unfamiliarities and fatigues breath out with the smoke. She dragged the coffee table towards her so as to better utilize the ashtray and became reabsorbed in the television. After finishing the cigarette she immediately, more or less without think about it, lit another. As she did so her gaze shifted back to Curt. “What are you drinking”? she asked, smoke punctuating each word.

“Bud,” Curt grunted.

Chrissy thought about it a moment. “Give me one.”

Curt laughed before tearing her a can from the six rings and tossing it to her. It landed on the couch, next to the carton of cigarettes. “Watch it, dip shit,” Christina said, but she smiled as she said it, as if joshing with an old friend. She picked up the beer and popped the top, putting the cold metal to her lips and finished near half the can before coming up for a breath. She even made the obligatory 80’s commercial “ahh” sound at the end.

Curt chuckled and pushed himself up from the chair. “Well, it sure is good to see you feelin’ more like your ol’ self, Chrissy. Maybe all you needed was a little company.”

“Are you leaving?” Christina asked.

“Got to get back to work. We can’t all make our own time drivin’ truck like yer Carl.” Chrissy nodded tacit agreement, as if this was something she knew. ‘Carlos, Carl, my husband, drives truck.’ “You just give me a holler, darlin’, if you need anythin’.” With that, Curt turned to leave.

“Thanks, Curt,” Chrissy waved a slight goodbye with the cigarette hand as Curt did the same over his shoulder before closing the door behind him and venturing back out into the snow.

Chrissy’s attention then refocused—or unfocused, as it were - back on the television. Soap Operas would be on soon. The beer had given her a comfy buzz. She leaned towards the lounger and dragged the bag over with her free hand, so it would be close by when she felt like another. When the news ended she lit a third cigarette, pulled the crummy blanket around her, and settled in for three hours of Soaps.

III—Morning, three days later.

For days Christina hadn’t done much more than wake up, eat a little bit, and watch tv. Yesterday a shuffling desire to putter, pick up a bit (this place was disgusting, wasn’t it?) swelled, but quickly subsided. Besides, there wasn’t much to see. The same faux wood paneling in each room. And not many rooms either. The little single wide was set up railroad style. Bedroom and bathroom in the back, and just one more smaller bedroom (piled high with junk—clearly it was intended as some sort of guest room at one point but now mostly held piles of clothes that she couldn’t tell were dirty or clean) before the space opened onto the living room/kitchen area. She still wasn’t thinking of the place as home, but her ability to remember where she’d come from, her posh, blue-blooded city life, was buried underneath a mountain of haziness and headaches. She was finding it easier just not to question the why of where she was.

One thing yesterday’s poking around did yield was her wallet and some keys. She found them in the pockets of some jeans that were under a few other articles of dirty clothing. There was $127 inside the wallet. The thought occurred to her that that was an impossibly small amount of money, but then the dizziness again. She drank two Buds, chained through a few more Salems to feel better and wound up falling asleep on the couch in front of the soft glow of the television. When she woke up that morning, splayed on the couch, her hair an unkempt and matted brown tangle, she smacked her lips and re-found the wallet on the coffee table. She smoked a cigarette and sipped at the unfinished beer from last night while examining the contents. Her face, her name on the license. Residence, Cranterville, WI. Age, 29. She also found a video store membership and a discount grocery membership card, both with her name on them. She could almost remember going to those places...

At any rate, the cold of the snow had let up considerably yesterday and she was feeling much better. She wanted to go into town. With $127, the world was her oyster (Chrissy couldn’t remember the last time she’d had so much money). She rummaged through the beat up chest of drawers in the bedroom, settling on a fairly ratty looking sweater and some rather tight sweat pants (there wasn’t much in there, most of the clothes were on the floor), threw on the dingy pink, puffy coat she found by the door, grabbed her things and headed for town.

The car in the driveway was a ‘92 Toyata Carolla with a big crack in the windshield. It had lots of fast food trash in the back seat, almost a dozen empties on the floor of the passenger side, and a nearly overflowing ashtray. Something way back in her mind registered the whole thing with a bit of disgust, but she lit another cigarette and cranked up the heat (it was still damn cold) and rattled towards town. It didn’t even occur to her to roll down the windows. It took her three more cigarettes before she finally came to a stoplight, the winding back roads finally yielding to a small intersection with actual businesses. She hadn’t gone through two more stoplights when the country roads began again. She pulled a U-turn in someone’s yard and parked in front of a gas station. It only took about ten minutes to walk the length of the town proper. A couple pizza places, a sandwich place, a small grocery store, a dingy local pharmacy, a Goodwill. The three bars caught her eye, but as she caught a glimpse of herself in a store window she felt an overwhelming urge to change her look. It was as if somehow, to her eye, she didn’t look like she was supposed to.

She found the one tiny, cracked plaster beauty salon just around the corner on a side street. Inside was an old lady getting her hair colored by a bleached blond young teenager with a huge perm. The only other person in there was sitting in one of the stations, filing at her long, pointy nails. The heavyset women with bleached hair and black roots looked up from her nails. “Hey, hon, whatchoo need today?” the woman smiled broadly. Christina smiled back but didn’t say anything. “You need a haircut, hon?”

Christina thought about it for a moment. “...yeah.”

“Well, don’tcha just stand in the door there, come on over and we’ll get you all set up.” Christina stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray inside the front door, hung her dingy pink coat on the wall, and settled into the beautician’s chair. “What’s yer name, hon?” the woman asked as she draped a hair smock around Christina’s neck.

“... Chrissy.”

“Well, Chrissy, I’m Donna. Yer a right mess, let’s get you a clean up a’fore we go any further. Sound good, hon?”

Chrissy nodded tacit approval and Donna proceeded to lean her back over a white tub with yellow ringed stains. Once the hair was washed out, Donna sat her back upright in front of the mirror. No makeup - despite her natural beauty, her face looked haggard. A dull, brown, wet head, Chrissy barely recognized herself.

“Are you lookin’ for a trim, honey? You want me to cut some cute little bangs in there?” Chrissy looked at Donna in the reflection. She was friendly, beaming and inviting. Chrissy felt comfortable and pliant.

“I’m... tired of my look.”

“Well, then you come to the right place!” Donna cackled.

“I want hair... like yours,” Chrissy admitted. Or realized. She wasn’t sure.

Donna pointed to her head. “Just like mine?” Chrissy nodded. “Well, I’ll take that as a compliment, honey.” Chrissy smiled back at her as she was leaned back over the sink. Over the next couple of hours there was cutting, dyeing, rinsing, more dyeing, a little more snipping, teasing, blow drying. Chrissy absolutely melted into the experience, feeling her entire being dissolve into the experience. When it was all done her hair was a shock of artificial yellow, a bit shorter with uneven, dark roots. Her bangs were big, frizzy and blown out over her forehead. Christina would have been mortified, but Chrissy was in love. She felt like herself for the first time in days.

“Hon, I love it!” she exclaimed. She reached up and touched the dry, frizzy locks.

“Well, baby, if you love that then you might want to check out what Shannon’s selling over in the corner a’fore you head out,” Donna said as she removed the smock. Chrissy stood up, vamping just a touch in the mirror, before turning her attention to the perm’d teenager lounging by the large plastic plant in the corner. Shannon didn’t register her name at first, she continued reading her magazine while she smoked a cigarette and cracked her gum.

“What?” Chrissy asked.

“Shannon, I think you might have a customer,” said Donna as she proceeded to clean up her station. Shannon looked up, realizing what was going on. She smiled and motioned for Chrissy to join her over in the waiting section by the plant. From underneath the seat she pulled a large pink makeup case.

Chrissy sat down in front of the heart-faced girl with the big, big hair. Shannon’s own makeup was thick, heavy and cheap. Chrissy loved it. Shannon proceeded to give Chrissy a similar makeover, never taking the cigarette from the corner of her mouth. Heavy, dark eyeliner and eyeshadow, punctuated with a lot of frosty blue. Generic, cherry red lips that didn’t go with Chrissy’s complexion at all. Enough base, concealer, and rouge for two faces. When she was finished, Shannon held up a large pink mirror and Chrissy squealed in delight. Christina would have called the look cheap, but Crhissy just bought more of the same makeup Shannon had used, paid Donna for the hair, and practically skipped into the winter air.

She felt the best she had since arriving in town (though her mind no longer registered it as an arrival, just as the day after she knocked her head). She headed up the street towards her car, but was drawn towards the neon PBR sign in the window of “Jack’s.” She opened the door to find a handful of sullen looking locals mulling over their watery looking beer. She asked the man behind the bar for a beer and if they had food. He gave her a stained paper menu and some Pabst Blue Ribbon in a plastic cup as she settled on to a bar stool. She settled on the bacon burger (the first red meat she’d actually had in many, many years. Prior to this the only meat she ever at was veal - not that she remembered that). By the time she’d finished eating and downing a couple more watery beers, the baseball game had started and a good number of sports fans had settled in to watch. Rowdy, sweaty men and boys drinking flat beer by the pitcher and yelling at the screen. Girlfriends with fishnets and feathered hair, squirming on their laps, chaining through cheap cigarettes and wine coolers.

Chrissy closed her eyes to soak it all in and somewhere in the back of her mind she remembered her other life. Christina, dining at the most exclusive, overpriced restaurants. Spending an average person’s yearly salary on a day of shopping. Crushing the spirits of the people beneath her just because she could, just to make herself feel good. But the memories were amorphous, fluid, changing. Escargot tar-tar became chilidogs. $5,000 designer clothes became ill-fitting church donations. And instead of lifting herself up by putting others down, she... she liked to...?

A rough jostle at her elbow brought her back to the bar. A group of rival fans had come in to harangue the group in the back, bumping into her as they passed. She belched, picked out a cigarette, but couldn’t find her lighter. A flick and a flame floated in front of her face. She gladly accepted before turning to the profferer.

“Curt!” Chrissy exclaimed through a haze of smoke and stale air. “How are ya? Is it after 7:00 already?”

“Sure is, darlin’.” Curt smiled and settled onto the stool next to hers. He was a bit dirty and worn looking from working at the mill all day. He signaled for a beer as Chrissy drank in his presence. Musky, thick, burly and strong, she was suddenly feeling like her old self (which as to say her new self, but she could no longer make that distinction).

“Well, I sure am glad you stopped in,” Chrissy sweetly cooed, leaning towards Curt. “I’m feelin’ so much better’n I did a few days ago.”

“Well, you look 200 per-cent better, darlin’,” Curt exclaimed after a pull on his long neck.

“Well, I just wanted to thank you for lookin’ in on me,” she lowered her voice a shade and placed her hand on his knee, “for takin’ care of me.” She slowly moved her cold-chapped hands up his inner thigh. Curt’s eyebrows raised, shifting his features from surprised to pleasantly surprised. “And I been so lonely this week,” she got closer to his ear, lowing her voice even more.

“Well,” Curt said slyly, “I think I know what we kin do ‘bout that.” And with that he reached up and goosed her inner thigh. Chrissy felt waves of erotic self-satisfaction emanate from his touch as she gasped and bit her lip, looking up quickly for a moment as if to Heaven before leveling her lustful gaze on his.

Just then a roar came from the patrons in the back. Curt turned to look at the tv and joined in. Hesitating for just a moment before submitting to the crowd, Chrissy let out a high pitched, throaty cheer for whoever had just done whatever. She then laughed at how good she felt and ordered another beer. She hung off Curt for the duration of the game, swilling cheap brew and chaining cigarettes with one hand, groping around under his shirt and down his pants as best she could with the other. The only time she stopped was when a bunch of high school girls came in and wanted to dance. They pumped the jukebox full of quarters and cranked up a bunch of country line dances that Chrissy seemed to know by heart. She jumped up, as did some of the other women in the bar, and joined the girls as they somehow managed to form a dance line in the now crowded bar. The men cajoled and cat-called, reaching out to slap and grab. Some of the girls playfully pulled away, but if Chrissy saw it coming she let her ass (or whatever body part) hang there a beat, squealing with delight at each misogynistic poke and prod.

When the game was over the patrons poured out of the bar towards their respective homes and/or vehicles. Chrissy clung to Curt, whispering dirty nothings in his ear and giggling like crazy.

“Girl, you are drunk.”

Chrissy belched again, then fell into another giggling fit before saying, “not THAT drunk.” She pawed at his crotch and felt a cement pillar pushing against the denim.

“Nuh-uh,” said Curt playfully. “My wife knows when the game is over and how long it takes me to get home. If I don’t git goin’ in 10 minutes she’s gon’ be a bitch to me all night.”

Chrissy frowned for a second, then smiled and asked “where ‘ya parked?”

Curt led her down the alley to his truck and they tumbled inside. He’d barely started the engine to get the heat going before Chrissy was hungrily tearing open his button fly. His boxers were bunched but she quickly managed to extricate his huge, throbbing cock. “Damn, girl!” Curt exclaimed as she wrapped her lips around his head, bobbing up and down his shaft, rapidly moving her tongue back and forth as she did, swirling it around in her mouth. Curt was fit to blow and started thrusting, grabbing her by the hair and pumping her head even harder up and down on his dick. Chrissy felt it push the back of her throat, but she just loosened up for a good deep throat fuck. Within a minute he was blowing a hot load down in her, which she greedily swallowed. She only had time to sit up and wipe her mouth before he said, “DAMN, girl. I will see you later but I have GOT to go.”

She stumbled from the truck as he quickly pulled away. She felt warm and happy inside. She managed her way back to the car, stopping inside the gas station for some jerky and a six of tall boys for the road. She puked outside her front door when she got home, half managing to get some clothes off before passing out in bed.

IV

Carlos rifled through the photographs in Dr. Fixer’s office. He laughed, gaped, and was turned on by pictures of his wife. Getting her hair done, vomiting outside of bars, humping some guy in a pizzeria bathroom.

“I can’t believe this. Christina abhorred smoking. And she never drank anything that didn’t cost less than $500 a bottle.” Carlos chuckled to himself and crossed his legs, trying to hide the erection he was getting looking at the picture of his posh wife, white trashed out and fucking some lonely hick in the back of a pizza place.

“Well, as I explained, Mr. Olivos, the most effective counter-programming comes not from trying to implant specific traits into the subject, but allowing for a kind of self-defined neuro-chemical mutation whose specifics are defined by the subject themselves. You wanted white trash, and what your wife has become is her own definition of the term, not anyone else’s. If she saw white trash as chain-smoking, beer-swilling layabouts, then that’s what she’s become.”

“But not the nymphomania?”

“Well, we had to reroute her pleasure center. It wouldn’t do for a back woods hick to be a stuck-up bitch. She used to derive pleasure in cutting others down, now she gets a sense of self-worth from the sexual attention of men. A fairly simple complex to replicate. We have hundreds of sensory samples for emulation and are getting more every day. Our one plant in the town, Carl, made sure to coax the right impulses out of her to establish the new personality.” Dr. Fixer laced his gloved fingers together and rested his hands on his chest. He did his best to ignore Mr. Olivos’ obvious arousal. So common in this business, men and women coming in, paying exhorbitant amounts of money for some of the most deviant sexual fantasies imaginable, yet acting prudish even in the presence of the man who knew the intimate details of their desires possibly better than they did. Ah, well—an unscrutinized client is a happy client, and a happy client funds for life.

Carlos continued to rifle through the surveillance photos of Christina—no, Chrissy now. She had been in Cranterville for only 9 days, but she was nearly unrecognizable. Dr. Fixer flexed his fingers and asked, “would you like to proceed as planned? I’m sure we can script an alternate ending for the scenario, if you like. You’d never have to see her again.”

“For instance?”

“Well, it’s not too hard to fake your dead body and an interstate accident. Especially enough to convince a dumb piece of white trash like your wife.” Carlos’ erection grew at the mention of his wife as white trash. The truth was, even with his rapid rise into the upper 1% in life, he’d never forgotten his roots. Or the strange fetish he’d developed for the slutty, white trash girls he’d been surrounded by growing up. “We can even abort the subject, if you’d prefer,” Dr. Fixer continued.

“Kill her?” Carlos was taken aback. He never wanted his wife dead, he just wanted her out of his hair. And hey, if he could fulfill an old fetish at the same time? “Christina was the cold-hearted bitch, not me. No, let’s move forward with the plan as scripted.”

Both men stood and headed for the changing rooms and the loading dock, where some suitably trucker-esque clothing and an 18-wheeler were waiting for Carlos. He’d been taking a crash course in driving it over the past week as Christina underwent the psychological reemergence that was the end stage of the doctor’s procedures.

“She won’t question why I’m away so long? I’m fairly certain I won’t be able to get up there more than once a month,” Carlos asked.

“A special bit of conditioning, that, but she’ll just think you’re a busy trucker, out bringing home the bacon, even if she’s presented with evidence to the contrary. As long as you make your first post-procedure contact inside of the next 21 days. Any longer and the bio-chem failsafe will be triggered and she’ll forget you entirely, redneck iteration or otherwise,” the doctor responded. “And don’t let her promiscuity worry you. We’ve implanted a cross-spectrum disease neutralizer that will always keep her from infecting you—or anyone else, for that matter, with any diseases she might be carrying. Seeing as how she had a clean bill of health when she left here, she should remain STD-free until at some point you decide you want the device removed.”

“Why would I want that, again?”

“Should you decide to have children.” Carlos’ erection raged on at the thought of his dumb, white trash wife, pregnant and weighed down by squealing brats. “Maybe in a few years,” Carlos said. “When her looks start to go.”

“Just remember that she’ll need another procedure for that.”

“Anything else I should know?” Carlos asked as he turned to leave the doctor at the entrance to the changing room.

“There’s a dossier in the truck. Please do your best to memorize it,” the doctor said, all business. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Thank you for all your amazing work, doctor.” Carlos and the doctor shook hands before he turned to go change into ‘Carl.’

Epilogue—One and a half years later

If it was 85 degrees outside, it was 100 in the house. They were too poor to get a new air conditioner after the one they had in the bedroom went bust last summer. The last time Carl was home Chrissy had him drag the couch and the tv into the backyard, which stayed pretty much in the shade all day what with the blue tarp awning she’d had him string up.

It was about 3 o’clock in the afternoon. Chrissy emerged from the single-wide clutching a Miller High Life, cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. She was wearing the faded baby blue tank and short-short shorts she’d fallen asleep in. She winced a bit at the sunlight but proceeded to the couch for that afternoon’s session of whatever Judge show was on. She’d just woken up, still hungover from the night before. She absentmindedly scratched a fairly large but superficial cut on her arm that she’d gotten from Mrs. Potter, who’d come down to Jack’s to accuse Chrissy of fucking her husband. Which, of course, Chrissy had. They’d gotten into it but it was Mrs. Potter who walked out of there with a black eye and a bloody lip. Chrissy would be damned if some fat ass bitch like Potter would get one over on her.

Not that Chrissy was in quite the best shape in the world. Having next to no money all the time kept her fairly thin, but the toned and pampered body of Christina had been absorbed Chrissy, the white trash slut. Her arms and legs were just a little bit saggy. Her once flat belly had gone soft. There was no paunch, yet, but there was no tone either. It had been eradicated by her at least six beers a day, god knows how many when she went out. Her hair had two inch roots, the rest of it a feathered and frizzy white-blond mane that encircled her head like a dirty halo. Her skin had gone red and splotchy from the infrequent showering, bad habits, and general lack of attention. She did, on and off, keep her nails done—done meaning the dollar-store whorish red press-ons that she went through almost as fast as the High Life. Her tits had gotten bigger and a bit saggier. She only threw them in a bra when she was going to town, and even then only if she was going out. If she was just ducking out for a quick suck n’ fuck, she didn’t bother.

She splayed out on the couch, set the beer on the tv tray next to it, and grabbed another cigarette from the pack tucked in her waistband. Her habit had grown close to two packs a day when she didn’t go out, maybe three if she went to the bar. She lit the fresh cig off the butt of the first one before tossing the spent cigarette onto the ground in front of her, which might as well have been a giant ashtray, it was so littered with smoked cigs. Just as she was about to reach for the High Life again she heard footsteps and a familiar cat-call.

“Where you at, bitch?!”

“Carl!” Despite the hangover, she jumped up excitedly and ran towards the corner of the house. Carl came sauntering around the edge, dressed in flannel, denim, a puffy trucker hat, and a shit-eating grin. She leaped into his arms and wrapped her legs around her husband as he caught her and held her up and close. She shoved her tongue down his throat and made out with him as he walked them both back to the couch, amazingly they remained kissing the entire time as he plopped himself down on the couch, his slutty wife still sucking his face. Finally, she relented. “Oh, baby, I missed you! Where you been out to this time?” she asked, taking a drag from the cigarette.

“Dallas,” Carl said. “I got something for you.” At that he produced a Zippo lighter that was shaped like the state of Texas.

“Oh!” Chrissy cooed. She leaned backwards to put it down, stuck her cigarette in her mouth to free her hands and said, “and I have something for you.” She pulled her top off over her head, somehow managing not to burn the shirt. Her big, bouncy breasts flopped right in Carl’s face as she leaned forward just a touch to get out of the shorts. She unbuttoned his fly with one hand and tugged his pants down with the other (something she’d gotten uncannily good at), slipped his huge cock from his boxers and slid her wet pussy right down on it. Carl moaned a bit and leaned into the couch as she braced her hands on the back of it, riding him up and down, faster and faster, breathing smoke in and out like some sort of slutty sex locomotive as the cigarette bounced up and down.

“Baby,” Carl said breathlessly, “you know I love you.”

Chrissy was about to respond with words when instead they both climaxed at the same time, her dirty white trash orgasm rousting the birds form the trees overhead.