The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It’s Sunday. There is a knock on the door. Hank Waters. I had been friends with him since high school. I think the only reason we’re still friends is habit. I see he’s holding a slightly crumpled porn mag in his hand as he walks in.

It isn’t one of the high-end magazines with photographers that make it all look like fuckin’ art, either, but one of them ones that cater to men that want to whack off to girls young enough to be their daughters. And a lot of times the women are not really good-looking—they are just willing.

And forget about the type of cover that just implies the girl puts out by the gleam in her eye—we are talking about the covers that show she’s a little slut—the ones that are sold with the plastic wrap designed to cover the tits and twats so that someone ain’t offended if they stop to the corner store on the way to church.

Hank having porn does not surprise me at all. I do find it weird that he is carrying it around. He lifts it up so I can see it better. Plastic wrap removed. A girl with a lollipop in her mouth and her legs spread wide. Believe it or not, it’s the face I focus on.

“Hank, that looks a little like Sta...” I could not even say the name because it was too out-there to even think that. Hank nodded his head in agreement with what I was about to say.

“Okay, but there is no way it’s her, Bro ... it is a trick of the light, or the way she’s holding her head...” My words trail off as he lets the magazine fall open to the centerfold.

Same girl, same lollipop, but now it’s at the entrance to another hole. And there is no doubt who she is. And to take it one step beyond possible denial, in the corner of the centerfold, in cursive, it says, Wanna taste? It’s cherry! The LOLLIPOP, I mean. Love, Staci. Okay, Stacy/Staci—six of one, half-dozen of another. It’s my high school sweetheart—no doubt.

But it still doesn’t compute. It took me two years to even get my hands down her panties, once, and she made me stop. And I did stop because, for one thing, I’m no rapist, but also because Stacy was special. Or so I thought.

Hank is flappin’ his gums about what are the chances he would come across this exact magazine. With the way he is addicted to porn? Better than average. He won’t give me the fuckin’ magazine so I kick his ass out and spend my day tracking down my own copy.

It is soon dog-eared. There is a whole layout; some of the pictures have her in a little pink see-through nightie, some with lollipops, some fingering herself, some using a dildo. I wonder if maybe she did it because she needed the money, but she looks way too into it. She looks like she is having a real good time.

And I get off over it—many, many times. But it pisses me off. This was the girl that I always thought was too pure for a low-life like me. I should have just offered her something to suck on. Had I only known. I use that magazine in a way that I wish I had used her.

I tell myself that I do not hold the pictures against her—it is the fuckin’ lie that I can’t take. The lie of who she pretended to be. The thought that maybe, while I was trying to get a few guilty little feels, she was taking on the football team. Doing them with that same blissed out smile on her face! That’s what I can’t get over—how she’d acted like she was above me.

Another Sunday, another knock on the door. This time it is not a centerfold of Stacy, it’s just Stacy. Looking shy, embarrassed, unable to look at me! That pisses me off too, because in the centerfold she was looking straight at the camera, like she was proud and unashamed. She looked like she loved being stroke material.

I don’t know if I invite her in or she just gets sick of standing on the porch, but next thing I know she is in my house talking about running into Hank.

“... and he looked at me like I was some prostitute. I could live with that, but... he told me that you knew. I couldn’t deal with YOU thinking of me that way!”

I can feel all my muscles clenching. I am actually getting pissed at her, standing there in a turtle neck. All I said was, “Well, you do what you have to do to make a buck. No big deal!”

She looks horrified. “I didn’t do it for money. I mean, I got paid. But, okay, I don’t even know why I did it. I don’t even remember it!”

I figure she is trying to say she was drunk or high. She reads my look. “I was sober—something weird happened!” She sinks down on my couch as if she is exhausted. I check her out and almost feel guilty—until I think about it.

My look is deliberately insulting. I ask her does she want anything—tea, soda, a lollipop? She looks as if I have hit her.

“That’s just cruel! Can you just listen?”

Yeah, sure, whatever.

Stacy tells me how everyone said she should model, so that when a guy told her he was a photographer, and gave her a really professional-looking card, she was interested. The guy even told her he had photographed a few celebrities before they hit it big.

She figured as long as she took a friend along, there was no harm, and that she might get some nice pictures for a portfolio. She took a friend for the first session and had a blast—the guy was nice and funny and made her feel at ease. He had her sign a waiver for the pictures and she did because it’s not like there was anything to be ashamed of over the pics that he took.

A few weeks later, he invited her over to show her the pictures, and told her that he had an idea for some more. This time she went alone. She says she considered taking her friend but felt stupid asking, since the guy was clearly okay.

He showed her the shots and she thought they were pretty good. He frowned and said they were alright, but that she needed to learn how to relax in front of the camera. He wanted to take more pictures after he taught her some relaxation techniques.

They sat down, and at first she was nervous. She says it was a little like that time in Junior High where the social studies teacher had us all gazing into each other’s eyes, and how it was hard not to look away. But he was a nice guy, so finally she did relax.

“But here’s where it gets weird! The next thing I know, I hear something fall and break. I look, and it’s his camera. I guess he dropped it. And I look down and I... I... have a thing, a sex toy in me!

“I don’t know how. One minute he is telling me to relax and the next I am naked and doing stuff. And I am all sticky—I do not mean sweaty sticky or sexy sticky but sugary sticky with the taste of cherries in my mouth.”

I am just staring at her, amazed that she is trying to get me to buy this shit. She starts to cry a little.

“I am telling you the truth. I jump up and grab my clothes and he’s telling me to wait but I break away from him and run—naked—I just have to get out of there immediately. As I am getting in my car he yells out the window that if I don’t let him ‘fix it’ I will regret it and that I might want to avoid cameras. At that point, I just think he is crazy and I’m happy to get out alive.

“Then it hits me—he has dirty pictures of me and a signed waiver. I know I have to go to him and beg him not to release the pictures, but I’m scared and freaked. I don’t want to go alone, but how can I explain this to my friends? Meanwhile, he’s calling me and telling me HE needs to see ME and fix it.

“And he tells me NOT to go in front of a camera. I’m wondering if in the waiver I promised not to be shot by other photographers, but I know there was nothing like that in there. I have NO IDEA what that is about.

“Until I go to a family cookout and my sister’s husband pulls out a video camera. I do not know first-hand what happened—only what people tell me.

“Dan is a big old pervert, and after a couple drinks he starts hitting on everyone. We all pretend it is funny and he is just kidding, but we all know better and pity my sister.

“Apparently he pulls out the camera and jokingly asks me to flash the camera. And I DO but I don’t remember doing it. All I recall is everyone looking stunned and my sister saying, ‘Jesus, Stace, cover up!’”

“He did something to me. Something that makes me lose all inhibitions in front of the camera. I have been trying hard to get the courage to go to him. Today I ran into Hank and he told me about the magazine and about you.

“I ... I wanted to come here and explain. And... well, ask you to come with me and make the photographer take it back and not do anything else to me.”

I am pissed, insulted that she thinks I am that stupid. I ask her to hold on a minute and I go grab my camera. I see a look of horror on her face for a second before I raise it, and then she relaxes and smiles ... and does whatever I say. And suddenly I believe her. The change is just too great.

There is not even film in the camera but it doesn’t matter. She loves being a slut for the camera and it is the hottest shit I have ever seen. I make her finger herself to orgasm and then get dressed again. I try to hide the serious wood that I am sporting and lower the camera.

I assure her that she did not do anything “bad”, that I just made her bark like a dog or some silly shit. I promise her that I will help her with the photographer and make her give me his address.

She leaves and I get to thinking about things, thinking how she was as innocent as she appeared all along. Then I think some more. I think about her own words, “He did something to me. Something that makes me lose all inhibitions in front of the camera.”

That does not sound like he made her do anything that she did not secretly want to do. Don’t get me wrong, the guy will not be winning humanitarian of the year, but he gets points for showing what Stacy really wants deep down.

So I go there, to the photographer, and have a little talk with him. Soon he is seeing things my way. I give Stacy a call and tell her that if she comes over Picture Boy will fix it all. Oh, and that I’ll protect her.

She shows up at his studio all trembling, but smiles when she sees me. I have to tell you, that trusting smile touches something in me. It really makes me think about what kind of man I am, and what kind of man I want to be.

He sits her down and says a word, and she goes under—he tells me, as an aside, it is the name of en expensive camera, but I don’t give a shit. He talks to her for several minutes and then wakes her up.

Stacy looks at me for reassurance, and I smile. Photographer winks at me as he asks, “We all cool?”

Yeah, Bro, we cool, we cool.

Stacy and I leave and I talk her into going back to my place, and make vague noises about how she at least owes it to me to have dinner with me. On the way home, I start to get some guilt feelings, and I tell her that I am sorry I assumed the worst when I saw the pictures and that I hope we can date again.

She tells me that it would be too weird to date me, knowing I knew about the pictures and might be judging her. Then, I realise that I do hold the pictures against her. Not because they make her bad, but because the fact that she did them really does mean the goodie-two-shoes crap was a huge lie.

Suddenly I am not feeling guilty anymore. A man does what he needs to do.

We go to my place and she freezes. There is a video camera on a tripod. I tell her that I wanted to test that everything was really okay, and that I thought she would feel more comfortable doing this with just me in case something funky happened. She smiles a little.

She walks in front of the camera and her body relaxes. I tell her that I want to see her big tits. She looks at me, horrified, but shows me.

“Oh my God, you didn’t fix a thing!”

“Now, Stacy, Lollipop, that’s not true. I fixed it—you won’t forget a thing that happens in front of the camera ever again. Play with your nipples, Baby. If you are really good I’ll give you something to suck on...”