The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I’ve never, in my entire life, done anything to deliberately hurt someone. I’m a typical “nice guy.” On those rare occasions when something I’ve said or done caused distress, I’ve felt deep remorse and done my best to make amends.

Given that, you can imagine how sick I felt at my reaction when Angela, my girlfriend of two years, told me we were breaking up. We’d given one another our virginity just six months before. She was a terribly cute little five-foot-two brunette, who tended to put on weight just looking at sweets, but who fervently worked it off with sporadic, episodic bursts of aerobics. I’d actually considered asking her to marry me, and now she was calling the whole thing off. On the outside, I was my normal passive, sensitive self. On the inside, I was feeling a burning rage unlike anything I’d ever felt before in my entire nineteen years.

“Gino, it’s not that I don’t still love you, it’s just that Richard makes me feel, well, so excited, so alive. I don’t know how to describe it —”

“— It’s okay. I understand, Angela.” I hazarded a weak smile, amazed it wasn’t the snarl of some nightmare beast. “I really don’t want to hear all the gory details. Richard’s everything I’m not. Rich and glamorous, with clothes and a new car. He can take you on vacations. He —”

“— Oh, Gino, it’s so much more than that! It’s not just the material things! You know I’m not that shallow.”

But, in a sudden burst of insight, I realized that she was exactly that shallow. Never had a girl been more image-conscious, more peer-conscious, more approval seeking. Granted, I’d always found her little vanities entertaining—even cute and endearing. Now, I realized it for the character flaw it truly was.

And then came the line, delivered with batted lashes: “We can still be friends, can’t we?”

“Sure, Angela. Sure we can,” I somehow muttered through the blooming black rage.

I thought it might pass. I prayed it would pass. I tried to ignore it, but the sickness grew within me.

We still saw one another once in a while, and talked on the phone weekly, at least. Learning the details of exactly how and when she’d hooked up with Richard, the new love of her life, was raw torture, and fuel for the beast within. How he’d wooed her and seduced her and his prowess as a lover, and how she’d hidden her growing infatuation and infidelity for three months before breaking up with me, and what a prince I was for still caring for her and how I was her dearest friend ever. About the dinners at the finest restaurants and the dresses he bought her and their weekend skiing, and, in giggled whispers, of the naughty things they did in bed.

The key that opened the lock that freed my monster was her fear of putting on weight. She’d gained seven pounds, and was terrified that her dear Richard wouldn’t find her attractive.

“Please,” she whined across the table one afternoon at the library, “it’s the only way I can lose the weight. You know that, Gino. I’ve tried everything.”

What I knew was that Angela had no will-power. She wasn’t able to commit to a diet or willing to exercise regularly on her own. After taking a psych class together, we’d dabbled with hypnosis as a way to motivate her to do what she was otherwise too lazy to accomplish. It’d worked.

My beast nudged the cage door open and surveyed the vastness of his new domain. “Sure,” I told her, closing my book. “Why not. And we can toss in a couple of other cues to help you concentrate better.”

She squeezed my hand. “You’re the best. Can we do it right now?”

I didn’t give in without a fight. I didn’t do anything hideous to her right away. I helped her control her appetite and improve her study habits. About the only concessions I made to the whispers from the darkness were to encourage her to trust me even more and to make her more truthful with me.

Those suggestions became a two-edged sword. While I was assured of her never totally leaving me—in fact, of needing me to be a major focus in her life—I also was burdened with more than I bargained for. Most of this education came while she was under, during the weekly tune-up sessions I saw to it she desperately needed. For instance, Richard thought I was a wimp, she informed me, and my dear Angela never defended me. Because, in her secret heart of hearts, she admitted that, in a way, she agreed.

The monster cackled, molted, and grew. When she awoke, following that session, her feelings about me were slightly different. By the time she left my apartment, there was a moistness in her loins inspired by being near me that’d never existed before, even back in the good old days.

In another session, she’d revealed that Richard, during the months that he’d fucked her before he made her break up with me, had reveled in sending her back to me with his sperm fresh inside her. And how they’d laughed when she shared how I’d unwittingly eaten it out of her while performing oral sex.

Suddenly (though it didn’t seem that way to her) Angela began having daily fantasies of the XXX kind, and feeling horridly ashamed of herself. Most were moderately innocent—like imagining herself not wearing panties or a bra all day in classes. Or feeling an urgent, frequent need to masturbate in front of her bedroom mirror in imaginative positions. A few weren’t quite so vanilla—like the dream featuring herself as the center of a fraternity gang-bang, or the one in which she was savagely raped by invisible strangers. Simultaneously, her sex-drive mysteriously increased. Her multiple orgasms were full-fledged screamers. Richard was sorely pressed to keep up with her. Though he wasn’t complaining. Yet.

She fidgeted on the sofa. “I . . . I have to tell you something.”

“Anything. You know that.”

“I, uh, oh shit—I can’t say it!” I grinned inwardly at the curse word dripping so easily from her formerly puritanical lips. She hadn’t been going to church nearly as much, and the word Jesus had pretty much dropped from her vocabulary except as an expletive.

“Relax, Angel.” A neat little trigger that caused her to do exactly that. (Wonderful irony, too, in that she hated that childhood nickname spoken by anyone but yours truly.) “Now out with it.”

“Well, it’s just that I’m turning into this nympho or something. I’ve been having all these, well, dirty thoughts, and they’re turning me on something awful.”

“So being turned on is a bad thing?”

“No! But I’m just so fucking horny all the time, Gino.”

“Richard isn’t taking care of you?”

She blushed even more brightly. “Yeah, he is. Twice a day, at least. But it’s . . . he’s . . .”

“Not enough?”

Her eyes were pleading as she nodded. “That’s not normal, is it?”

I pretended discomfort. “Hey, normal’s relative, you know? What’s normal for a monk isn’t the same as what’s normal for a, uh . . .”

“Slut?” she finished for me in a quiet hiss, her eyes blinking with a growing, uncomfortable awareness.

“Well, that’s not exactly what I was going to say, but . . .”

She wasn’t under, but her eyes glazed slightly and her voice lost some of it’s lilt. “Sluts are always horny, aren’t they? They’re always wondering what nasty things feel like, and thinking about doing them makes them all wet and short of breath.” She blinked rapidly, her lower lip trembling slightly. “Am I? Is that what I am?”

“Oh, Angel, no! No way. It’s not like you’re out there fucking everybody on campus. You’re a one man kinda girl.”

She nodded thoughtfully, looking slightly relieved for a moment. “But, Gino, I did sleep with two guys at the same time—you and Richard. For three whole months.” Her eyes were a bit hooded, her voice lower. “And I liked it, I guess. I mean, I really liked it.” Okay, so maybe her memory was enhanced a little. “You both made me cum like crazy. And it was so fucking naughty.” She unconsciously rubbed her legs together. “I’d never done anything so wicked before. It was so dirty. So slutty. Wasn’t it?”

“Well, now that you put it that way, yeah, I guess. Maybe a little.”

Her nipples were denting her cast-iron bra and no-nonsense white cotton blouse by then, and the movement of her jean-clad thighs must have been doing nice things to her succulent clit.

“You know,” she went on, very seductively, considering the source, “I still think about you. I think about you a lot. When I masturbate, I remember some of the things we used to talk about doing. Ropes and lingerie and stuff. I really wanted to try them, but I was scared.”

“Scared I’d hurt you?” I wondered with genuine surprise.

“No, silly boy,” she giggled throatily. “Scared of being bad. Scared I’d like it too much.” She licked her dry lips. “I guess maybe I was right. I think when I started fucking Richard while I was still fucking you I opened the floodgates or something. I guess maybe I really am a slut, Gino.”

My cock was a steel bar in my jeans. I inhaled deeply through my nose. “Jesus, babe! Just talking about it must have really got you cranked. I can smell you from way over here.”

She actually writhed a bit on the sofa. “God, yes! My fucking panties are soaked, honey.” Her eyes registered the budge tenting my lap. Her hands idly drifted to cup her groin. Her moan was pure, raw, lust. “Oh, fuck, I miss your cock, Gino. I fits my pussy so well.” Her eyes sought mine. “Do me? Please? I need you so bad, lover.”

And so I let her seduce me, proving to herself that she was, undeniably, a slut—and that she’d never loved anything more in her entire life more than spreading her mouth and legs for dick and orgasming until she passed out.

Her shame and self-disgust also ran deep—just as deep as her emancipated lust. Oddly, the worse she felt about herself, the more she felt compelled to act out her fantasies. Now she was getting her wicked jollies by sneaking around behind Richard’s back and fucking us both raw.

One Thursday evening, while she was supposed to be attending some fictitious study group, we surfed porn sites with her rising and falling on my lap, fully clothed except for bra and panties, which she’d not put on that morning.

“God,” she groaned, pinching her own nipples through her baggy blouse, her vagina tightening around my cock. “That bitch looks so fucking hot!”

I ground hard against her and rolled her clit through her long, loose skirt. “She looks like a fucking whore, you mean. That vinyl looks like it’s painted on her, and she’s wearing enough makeup to fill a store.”

“Umm,” Angela squealed as she fell back against my chest. “And those cunty high heels. God, she’s so fucking gorgeous!”

“No more gorgeous than you could be.”

“Yeah, right,” she giggled, elbowing me playfully in the ribs. “In your dreams.”

“Your’s, too, I bet,” I laughed. Then, “Here, I’ll prove it.” I called up Photoshop, and loaded an old picture of her—a semi-close-up of her face and chest. I dabbled it briefly, letting her continue to bounce gently on my lap while I colored her lips a deep, glossy vermilion, plucked her bushy brows, and tinted her lids with blue and silver.

As the five minute process went down, my lap dancer panted and juiced up even more and groaned quietly and quaked through a couple of mini-orgasms.

“Ta da,” I sang, “Angel the Whore, at your service. One hot slut—even without a kinky wardrobe.”

“Oh,” she whimpered. “That’s really me. I saw—I saw you do it. I’m—oh, fuck.” her eyes closing. “Oh, fuck, yeah. I want to do it, baby. I want to paint my face like a total cunt and wear fuck-me heels, and—oh, shit, here it comes! I’m gonna—I’m gonna—fill me up, Gino! Shoot your cum way up inside my filthy fuck hole!”

After a break, I introduced her to some shopping sites I’d bookmarked featuring sexy club wear. And bondage equipment. And—well, I’m sure you get the picture. I wondered how she was going to cover the four-hundred and fifty dollars in charges she made that night. Not to mention the bucks she added to her card the next day on a full salon makeover and ten pounds of cosmetics.

We were well on the road, it seemed.

“. . .And after he finished fucking me he told me to go wash all that shit off my face,” she pouted with dark red lips, recrossing her hose covered legs, letting her red miniskirt slide higher up her thighs. “Can you believe it? After all the trouble I went to be all hot for the prick, he said I looked like a fucking truck stop whore and wouldn’t even kiss me.” She giggled. “God, he fucked me good though. But I’m sure glad I listened to you and left my sexy new clothes here. If I’d been dressed and made up, he’d have totally come unglued.”

She didn’t look like a truck stop whore. Not quite. I shook my head in commiseration. “Hard to believe. What’d he have to say about your hair?”

She reflexively patted her freshly platinumized locks with stubby red nailed fingers. “At first he thought it looked cheap, but he’s gotten used to it, I guess. Shit, everybody wants to fuck a hot blonde, right?”

“I sure do,” I admitted, staring into the deep cleavage displayed by the thin white blouse and the hard nipples just out of sight, “in every hole available.”

“Aw,” she grinned, sliding closer to me on the sofa “you doll. You know just how to sweet talk a girl.” Licking slick lips, she added, “which hole do you want to start with?”

It was her first time ass fucking, but she took to it like a pro and screamed like a banshee when she came. What made it even better is that I’d hadn’t had to suggest it.

“So fucking nasty,” she whispered, staring enrapt at the lipstick streaked all over my drooping dick and licking the cum from her smeared purple lips. Now, she looked like a truck stop whore, complete with garish eyeshadow, overstretched tank top, sprayed on daisy-dukes, and clear platform heels. And she sucked cock like one, too.

“So fucking hot,” I corrected, running my fingers through her hairspray stiffened white-blonde hair.

“Same thing,” she grinned up at me before climbing onto my lap and snuggling. She looked down at her bare belly and lost her smile. “I’m still too fat. Look at that huge roll of shit on my gut.” She pinched the offending little tuck between long violet talons. “That’s probably why Little Dickie doesn’t fuck me enough. I need another tune up, lover.”

“Angel, we just did that yesterday. You’ve lost fifteen pounds in the two months we’ve been doing this. You barely eat enough to keep a bird alive, and you’re working out three times a week. Besides,” I said, kissing her neck, “I think it’s cute.”

She moaned and made her throat more available. “I’m not about cute, Gino baby. I’m about walking-wet-dream-sexy. Now put me under, you fantastic fuck, and fix it, then we can do the dirty some more.”

She was more than a little drunk.

“Oh, Angel, you didn’t!” I exclaimed.

“What the fuck else could I do,” she wailed, pacing the room in front of me, her stiletto heels causing her tits to bounce freely inside her “I Fucked Your Boyfriend” tee shirt. “We’ve tried everything else, and I’ve got to get rid of this fucking beer gut. Smoking helps you keep weight off. Everybody knows that. Sure, it’s a bad habit, but, fuck, I can quit anytime.” She looked at me, her eyes deep pools of lust. “You can make me give them up anytime I want, right?”

“Well, yeah, but —”

“Besides,” she said, digging into her purse and coming out with a box of Fantasia’s, “it’s sexy as fuck.” She inserted a long hot pink cylinder between even hotter pink lips. It bobbed wildly as she spoke. “At the bar tonight, before Dickless came in, I had this one poor bastard buying me drinks and creaming his jeans watching me smoke, dreaming it was his dick instead of the cig in my mouth.”

She lit it with a match, waved it out and decided and empty glass would work as an ashtray as she blew a plume of smoke. “I had the dude begging me to let him take me home. I damn near did it, too. Even if he was a shitty lay, it’d have been better than having Dickie scream at me in front of the whole fucking bar over a little fucking thing like smoking. Motherfucker demanded that I put it out and throw the pack away. Demanded!” she shouted indignantly through a gray cloud.

“So what’d you do?”

“Exhaled straight into his face and told him to go get fucked and came straight over here where I knew I’d be appreciated for what I am,” she cooed throatily, swaying toward me. “You think it’s sexy, don’t you?”

“Appreciated for what you are?” I asked her back as she straddled my legs and sat on my lap. Her pink skirt slid up, displaying her shaved, seeping slit.

“Um hum,” she half groaned, taking a heavy drag and grinding her cunt against my thigh. “Appreciated for being one hot, nasty slut.”

“Oh, Angel, you’re hot okay. The hottest. And nasty. And probably the best fuck on campus. But you really aren’t a slut.”

She leaned back far enough to grind her cig out in the glass, thereby thrusting her wet pussy against my raging boner. She put a hand behind her on each of my knees and continued to slowly dry fuck me, staring at me through heavy lidded, thickly mascaraed lashes. Her voice was thick and rough. “Why do you say that, baby. I mean, just look at me.”

“Oh, I am, and I fucking love what I see! You look and act like gift-wrapped fuckholes. But . . .”

She was panting and whining softly. “But what, lover?”

“Well, what kind of real slut has only fucked two guys her entire life? I mean, a true slut would have balled that guy at the bar, wouldn’t she?”

Without breaking contact with my crotch, she stretched back for her cigs—a blue one this time—and forced her cunt even harder against me. It’s lips split and seemed to be trying to suck my cock in right through my jeans. I grabbed the matches from her shaking hand and lit her smoke.

“There wasn’t time,” she moaned, shivering through a little orgasm as she exhaled. “I was waiting for Dickie.”

I grabbed her nipples, tried to help them rip their way through the tee. “There’s always time to fuck, Angel.”

Cigarette dangling from pink lips, she rose slightly, unzipped me and sat back down hard, impaling herself to the root. Her eyes rolled back in her head. “Yeah,” she gasped. “I could have just gone out to his car with him, or we could have hidden behind the dumpster in the alley, or . . .” She lost the ability to speak for a few seconds as her tight cunt contorted around my shaft. “Or I could have just fucked him in the men’s roooooooom,” she wailed loudly and shook all over.

I pulled out, and she fought weakly to keep me in. I pushed her back, then down. “Lick your sweet cum off my cock baby. Fix your lipstick and give me a hot, wet, sloppy, smoky blow job like a good little whore.”

“You’re sure you don’t mind?” she called from the bathroom.

“Not at all,” I said enthusiastically. I was laying on the damp, disarrayed sheets, my cock limp and wet against my thigh. She was fluffing her lengthening silver hair in the mirror, turning her head this way and that checking her makeup.

“I mean, I’ve already fucked you and Dickless both twice today. We could just hang out or something. I don’t have to have more cock or anything.”

“True—but you want more cock, don’t you?”

“Well yeah,” she laughed, like that should have been perfectly obvious. She adjusted her lipline with a long, curved, silver fingernail bearing a little red stencil. Flicking her bic on a Marlboro Light, she turned to check her ass. She frowned, cigarette dangling from fat red lips, at the line her thong made under the scarlet micro-mini, then shimmied the offending tiny scrap of black cloth down her sleek thighs, revealing her hairless, pouting pussy in the process.

“Besides,” I said honestly, “I think it’s hot that you can’t get enough dick.”

She laughed again, prancing back toward me. “Oh, I get enough Dick. He’s so fucking boring. When I showed him this cool lip plumper lipstick that you got me, he just got this blank look on his face like, ‘Why do you need that shit?’ And, jesus, if I come home smelling even a little bit like smoke, he goes fucking ballistic. If he had any idea that my Monday, Wednesday and Friday aerobics classes were really mattress mambo sessions with you and whatever stunt cock I can come up with, they’d have to put him in a little rubber room somewhere.”

Stopping beside the bed, she took a long hit from the cig as she stared down at me, raw adoration in her eyes. I was stunned, really. I hadn’t tampered with her feelings for me in our little tune up sessions. In fact, I suddenly realized, there hadn’t even been any in over two months. “You, however, accept me for who I am—the campus cunt. In fact, the sluttier I get, the more we both seem to like it.”

Her eyes moistened and she batted tears away with lashes as long as blackened palm fronds. Glancing away with sudden self-consciousness, she stubbed out her smoke in the ashtray beside the bed. She bent over and left a little lipstick on the head of my prick, then a tad more on my mouth. “Well, if I’m going, I better move.”

I almost asked her to stay. Instead, I said, “Go have some fun, lover. I’ll see when you come back to clean up.” What was this strange feeling in my gut? Guilt?

“If you do that Angel,” I whispered, holding her as she cried, “it’s over between you and Richard. He wants a trophy wife, somebody he can take to the Country Club and show off.”

“Not some sleazy cunt with tramp stamps on her belly and ass?” she wailed. “Is that what you mean, Gino?”

“Is that what he called you?”

“Oh,” she said angrily, pulling away and lighting a smoke, “that was just the start. After that he got really mean.”

“Did he hit you?”

Something in the tone of my voice caused her to sit and and give me a long, hard look. “No. He wouldn’t dare. I’d beat the fucker to a pulp with his favorite baseball bat—and he knows it.” She snuggled into my shoulder and exhaled her smoke. “So. You don’t think I should do it?”

I petted her hair, kissed the top of her head. “I didn’t say that. I just wanted to be sure you know that’d be the final straw. Smoking and platinum blonde hair and makeup are all just temporary, babe. So’s the belly ring and three piercings —”

“Five. Got two more in each ear this afternoon. See?”

She leaned forward and lifted the hair away from her graceful neck so I could look.

I nibbled the proferred earlobe. “Mmmm. I like.”

“Oh, stop,” she giggled, pushing away and tapping the cigarette in the ashtray. “Your point is that tattoos are permanent, like, for the rest of my life, and Dickless couldn’t deal with that.” She sucked smoke, frowning, then looking at me. “Would you like it? And don’t feed me any bullshit about liking whatever I want to do, okay? That’s the kind of shit that got us in trouble before.”

It was just an offhand observation, casually delivered, but it hit me with the impact of an eighteen wheeler. She was right. I’d always been so eager to please her that I’d never really voiced an opinion, unless it was carefully couched in plausible deniability. I’d come off like a spineless, wishy-washy wimp. I’d blamed her for all of our troubles. Then, I’d retaliated massively and set about to ruin, not just her relationship with Richard, but probably her entire life. Man, if you called what she’d done to me betrayal, what the fuck could you call what I’d done to her?

My tinkertoy house of dreams, when confronted by that tornadic truth, blew away like so much kindling.

Suddenly, I was having trouble breathing. I tried to make my mouth work. She looked at me with growing concern and twisted toward me.

“Gino? Baby, are you alright?"”

I shook my head, gritted my teeth, and forced words through a throat which desperately didn’t want me to speak. “No. I’m not alright. I’m a totally sick fuck.”

Her joke was feeble. “That’s what I love about you.”

“No, Angela. We’ve got to talk.” I think we both realized about the same time that I hadn’t called her by her given name in nearly six months.

“This doesn’t sound good,” she said, her eyes huge, her voice afraid.

“Oh, it’s even worse than that.” And I laid out the whole, ugly, manipulative, evil story.

She handled it better than I thought she might. Her first punch was to the solar plexus, not the balls. I think her second one was to the side of my head after I’d doubled over, but I really don’t remember. All I recall is waking up on the living room floor at around three in the morning, feeling like I’d been kicked in the guts by a mule, then had my head stomped by an elephant.

I hurt, but the physical pain wasn’t the worst. Not by a long shot. Long after I could have gotten up, I just lay there in the dark quietly sobbing. She didn’t deserve a tenth of what I’d done to her. Hell, no one did. Then, on second thought, maybe I deserved something along those lines. Have someone hypnotize me and turn me into a simpering little pussyboy fag fucktoy.

I guess I cried myself back to sleep there on the dirty carpet. The sun pouring over the horizon like molten gold searing my eyes is the next thing I recall.

That day and the next and the one after that were pretty ghastly. I had a headache that wouldn’t go away—a minor concussion, though a skull fracture was more aligned with what I deserved. It wasn’t crippling. My depression was. I thought about suicide, but figured I didn’t deserve that yet.

For the rest of the week, I worried about what kind of horrors Angela was going through. To have been forced into acting like a wanton slut was her worst nightmare made real. To have become, against her will, what she most despised—now that was torture. Evil incarnate. I didn’t go to class or my part time job. I mostly just stayed on the couch and dreamed dark dreams. I half prayed she’d come back with a gun and finish the job.

It was late Monday afternoon. I woke from another nightmare with a start, then flopped back down with a moan and stared blindly at the ceiling. Had my bladder not been radically insistent, I’d have just rolled over and dozed off again. Wakefulness was a terrible thing. As it was, I wasn’t quite to the piss-your-pants phase of depression, so I struggled into a sitting position.

“God, you stink,” she said, her lighter flaring too brightly in the dim room.

“Angela!” I croaked.

“No, you fuckhead,” she said. “I’m Angel, remember?”

“I told you,” I managed to say, unable to look at her, “a good therapist—”

“— can reverse everything. Yeah. I remember what you said.”

I studied my feet. “I didn’t say, ‘everything.’ Nobody can undo the things I made you do and say and think.”

I heard the whisper of hose as she stood up. “Yeah, well, I’ve got a problem with that. What you did to me—or thought you did—was fucked. It was rape. Or would have been if I hadn’t spread my legs and begged for more.”

“You didn’t. I —”

“— Oh, can the shit Gino. We both know you can’t force people to do things under hypnosis. Granted, it’s possible to manipulate them into some weird shit—which you did. But none of this, baby, is stuff I wouldn’t have gotten around to sooner or later on my own. I know that now. I’m still righteously pissed and have no regrets whatsoever about busting your chops for it.”

She was pacing and smoking. I could hear the first and smell the latter. I closed my eyes. “You’re wrong. You were —”

“—A train wreck waiting to happen. You diagnosed me right—a slut. Look what I did to you, baby—the man I said I loved. I was fucking around behind your back for three months. I mocked and humiliated you. I lied and cheated and broke your heart. I’d have kept doing that over and over my whole life—and probably only gotten worse with time. I was sick and would’ve gotten sicker.”

“Right. And I healed you, huh. Some fucking healing!”

“More like acceleration than healing, I think. You just helped me to paint my heart on my body. Made me honest about the fucked up shit I was pulling. Made sure I didn’t fool anybody else with my innocent, pure little act. WYSIWYG. What you see is what you get.”

“Angela —”

“Shut up, Gino. I’m not finished. I spent a lot of time thinking this week, and made some changes. The first thing I did was go to a bar for a drink and some cock. That cleared my head a little, but I think I scared the poor bastard I picked up. Can you believe he’d never had a girl asked to be ass-fucked?”

“Angela, before I re-arranged your head, you’d never been ass-fucked.”

She laughed smoke. “Give up the self-pity, Gino. I never told you, but I’ve been double-fucking my ass and cunt with toys since I was in the eighth grade. Now I just use the real thing.” She licked her lips as if tasting the memory.

“Anyway, by the time I got home, Richard was asleep. I sat in the living room all night trying to figure out what I wanted to do. Where I really wanted to go with my life. I’ve known for a long time that teaching special-ed wasn’t want I really wanted to do. That’s shit from my mom and dad—along with every other fucking thing about how I used to be.”

Her heavily made up eyes burned into me. “I realized that you, dirt-bag that you are, set me free. I wasn’t bound by all those old rules I made up and couldn’t ever live by. I realized how totally fucking miserable I used to be. How much I disgusted myself. I also realized something else. I’m a hell of a lot tougher than I thought I was.” She shook her platinum mane in amazement. “How could you stand being around somebody as insecure as I was?”

I shrugged, had to look away from her again as she met my eyes. “Wasn’t so bad. It’s not like you were needy all the time. There’s a lot more to you than that.”

She cocked her head sideways. “You really loved me, didn’t you?”

All I could do was nod.

She straightened, then leaned forward. “Do you now? Still? Since I’ve turned into a total slut?”

I hesitated, then nodded again.

Her eyes narrowed, turned to steel. “Say it.”

I swallowed. “Yes. I love you.”

She studied me like a bug, then leaned back in her chair and deliberately re-crossed her legs, flashing miles of thigh. “Back to my story. By the time Dickless woke up, I’d made up my mind about a few things. Instead of answering questions about where’d I’d been, I sucked his cock until he forgot I hadn’t answered him. After he left for class, I started phoning around looking for a place of my own. By noon, I’d moved my shit in with two girls just off campus. Then I started looking for a job.” She paused to light another cigarette.

“You’re dropping out of school?” I blurted in alarm.

She shook her head and exhaled. “Part time job.” Her sliver eyelids drooped seductively. “I work three nights a week at Club Vogue. I’m a stripper, Gino.”

“Oh, God.”

She slowly uncrossed her legs just enough to show me she wasn’t wearing panties. “I fucking love it, baby. Strutting my shit on stage, dancing nasty for dozens of guys. Having them throw money at me. Lap dancing till they come in their slacks.” She slouched down, letting her tiny skirt rise. “I even turned a trick—let some guy fuck me for five hundred.” She sucked hard on the cigarette, eyes closed. “I’m finally a whore,” she moaned.

I couldn’t take any more. “Stop, Angela,” I sobbed. “Please stop.”

She looked puzzled. “Stop telling you about it, or stop doing it?”

“Stop doing it!” I screamed, jumping to my feet. She shrank away from me.

“I can’t live with this! You’re not Angela. I murdered her.”

A suddenly as it’d come, my rage vanished, leaving only pain. I scrubbed my hands across my stubbly face, forced my voice back toward the normal range. “Sorry. I guess deserved that. I deserve whatever punishment you’ve decided on.” I hazarded a glance at her face.

She was crying. “Oh, Gino. I’m so sorry. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be like it was before. Before you told me. I was going to come back here and tease you and make you crazy hot for me and we’d fuck like we did only I’d never leave and . . .” Her voice was lost in sobs.

I was stunned. I just stared at her, mouth agape, for way too long. “Angela, I —”

She jerked away from my voice. “What a dumb cunt I am. Never mind. I’ll get out of your life.” She was on her feet, moving toward the door.

She almost made it. When my paralysis ended, I launched myself like a missile and blocked her path. “Stop. Wait.”

“For what?”

“You said . . . you said you’d never leave.”

“Oh, that. Never mind. Just a dumbing fucking —”

“— I don’t want you to ever leave. I want to be with you the rest of my life.”

I never saw it coming. She slammed into me like a freight train, pinning me against the door. Her mouth ravaged me. I swear by the gods that I felt her nipples denting my chest as she growled down my throat. She ripped her lips from mine. She was panting, but her eyes were narrowed. “Why? Why do you want me to stay?”

“Because I —”

“Be careful here, asshole,” she growled. “A lot depends on your answer—and I’ll know if you’re lying. Is it because I’m the best fuck you’ll ever have? Or is it because you feel guilty?”

I stared right into those amazing eyes, now haloed by ruined makeup. “Both. But, more importantly, I just saw that Angela’s not dead. The woman I loved and was ready to ask to marry me is alive and well, and I want her back. In my bed and in my life. Forever.”

“Marry?” she squeaked in a voice I hadn’t heard since before this whole hell started. “Me?” she added.

I dropped to one knee. “Angela Ann Montenegro, will you —”

I was interrupted my her grabbing my ears and face-fucking me with a decadently wet, hairless cunt as she screamed “Yes! Yes! Yes!” at the top of her lungs.

Well, it turned out that her nipples had been denting my chest. They bore the weight of heavy-gauge rings. And her tongue wore a stud that she used to amazing effect.

Now, though, her nipples wear her engagement and wedding rings. Her customers at Club Vogue seem to really like them, and the diamond tongue, belly, and clit rings, too. A vividly gorgeous tribal tattoo decorates her lower back, and a realistic heart throbs just above her thick-lipped cunt.

She still turns the occasional trick, just for the sheer wickedness of it, and now and then just fucks someone for fun. Usually, though, it’s just me, her poor suffering hubby who has to keep the insatiable slut satisfied. She’ll probably more or less retire this May, as soon as we both get our our PhD dissertations published.

And, yes, we do still play with hypnosis sometimes. A girl’s got to keep her weight down, you know.