The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I

Amy Lee listened to Mildred, that is to say Dr. Mildred Scott, explain the benefits of the hypnosis treatments she’d just suggested. Or rather, she tried to appear to listen, but her mind wandered over the furniture in the office, the plush couch against the wall, facing the two armchairs and the one round table set between them. The plaques and certificates on the wall, the clear absence of plants and flowers, the bookshelves filled with psychology and pharmacology books. The knick-knacks and bric-a-brac. The weird, half-erotic, half-obscene statuary standing on the far shelf behind the therapist’s desk.

One lone fern in a pale blue bowl trailed its fronds on the polished wood of the round table, low to the floor, in front of the chair Amy sat in.

Many of the fronds had turned brown, drying up for lack of water or care.

A bit of a green thumb herself, Amy sucked in her breath, keeping a reprimand in check.

When her mind came back to the doctor’s spiel, she found herself in mid-sentence.

“…of them as release treatments, ways to let your mind go. To liberate your creativity. You said you’ve suffered writer’s block for how long now?”

Ah. Yes. That thing.

“Four years.”

“Four years,” Dr. Mildred Scott repeated, looking at the thin woman with long brown hair, luxurious and gleaming. “Four years. Wouldn’t it be nice not to make it five?”

Well, duh. That’s what I’m paying you for, doc.

But she found herself bobbing her head in agreement.

“Okay,” she said, planting a fake smile on her mouth. “Let’s do it.”

Two years at the Iowa Writer’s Workshop for this.

To be hypnotized into writing again.

“Good,” Dr. Scott said. “We’ll start next week.”

Before she left Amy pointed to the fern.

“Twice a week. Let the soil get dry, then fill again. Those fronds should come back.”

II

Bob enthused. Reacted with enthusiasm, oozed enthusiasm, blurbled and bobbed with his Bobish, Boblike, and Boybob laugh.

“I mean,” he said, “you can get writing again. And not just those articles you do CLIT.

An old joke, long gone stale. The journal’s real title was Trends and Issues in Contemporary Literature, but somehow, somehow Bob turned it inside out to make CLIT. Only he found the humor in it.

The idea of hypnosis tickled him.

“You be careful,” he cautioned. “You don’t know what she’ll turn you into.”

Amy frowned, herself a little, well, uneasy at the idea, that kind of therapy.

But she’d heard some of her faculty associates talking about it for their own therapy sessions—with different therapists, of course. Some noticed no change, some of them found it easier to relax. One of them had even quit smoking, a gray maven of the Department—and a notorious user of tobacco.

Besides, it kind of rankled.

Those articles signified real writing. They did.

But Bob always knew how to get her goat. Himself a more than capable translator of German and Italian poetry, he specialized in late 19th century Italians such as Carducci and Pascoli. Or early 20th century Germans like Heym and Trakl.

She didn’t do poetry, saw no sense in it literally.

She cut her teeth on clean, simple prose slicing through to the heart of the matter, and when she finally captured her MFA, that clean, simple prose simply vanished, cleanly and without a trace.

Oh, critical analysis held no difficulty for her. She could always pen an article, a review, an essay. She had no problem doing that sort of thing.

She even liked research.

In moderate enough doses.

She’d begun to make something of a name for herself in those tight, academic circles so common to the university lifestyle.

She’d taken to giving the odd lecture here and there.

But that writing, that writing she knew lurked somewhere just beneath her surface, that writing remained unachievable.

She couldn’t regain the early success of her MFA capstone, a collection of short stories called Home Fires.

What the hell, she thought staring at Bob’s silly grin. What do I have to lose?

III

The fern looked better, greener.

Either Mildred, Dr. Scott that is, had begun watering her plant appropriately or she had plucked off the withered leaves, for the plant sat vibrant and healthy on the round table, low to the floor, standing between Amy and the therapist.

“I’m so glad you agreed to do this, Amy. I’m sure you’ll find yourself feeling very confident and very at ease with yourself. Once we’re done with the whole thing. You might even find some of this exhilarating.”

Dr. Scott held up a long thin object.

At first Amy thought it was a pen, but on closer inspection she couldn’t really say what it was.

Just a long, cylindrical stick, perhaps made of wood, atop which a crystal had been set.

Just a quartz crystal by the look of it.

“Just keep your eyes on the crystal, Amy, and breathe slowly, breathe deeply. Listen to my voice as I tell you how to breathe, how to breathe easy and relaxed, so very at ease with the world, so very at ease with yourself.”

On and on and on Mildred, Dr. Scott, went on, repeating herself, varying the repetition, adding new sights, new visions, new ideas, leading from the deep seats within her heart, her heart beating so calmly, her blood easing through her vessels, her mind lifting out of her body into the white clouds of a blue sky, how wet the clouds were, how warm, and how so fragrant with the smell of spring, clouds smelling of spring flowers and mist, and higher still, past the clouds, past the bounds of the sky, higher, but don’t worry about breathing, higher, above the earth, the world is so small now, and just there, just above the moon, where she could stand still and breathe, relax and breathe with the moon at her feet, her sweet little writer’s feet, so cute, and definitely so adorable.

And there on the moon, on the surface of the moon, is a nice warm bed on a wrought-iron bedframe, a bed big enough for one person, one woman, and that woman is you Amy, and Amy, dear Amy, I want you to fall to your bed on the moon now and sleep.

Dr. Mildred Scott spoke softly and monotonously, and Amy slumped in her armchair.

“Amy. I know you can hear me. You can hear me in your sleep, Amy, and it’s so good to listen to me in your sleep. So relaxed, and warm, and my voice is so inviting, just like your bed is inviting, and you just want to listen to me, and to hear me, and to trust me. Do you hear me, Amy?”

Amy’s head moved, barely perceptible, and her mouth uttered a soft yes.

IV

“Good,” Dr. Scott said breathily. “That’s so good. Your eyes are closed, and you’re sleeping, just sleeping on the moon listening to my voice, tucked under your blankets, so soft and warm. Listening to my voice, so soft and warm, guide your dreams, because your dreams will help you write. We’ll train you how to let your dreams, guide your waking life. We’ll, I’ll, train you to let your dreams prevail. On the moon, it’s easy to dream.

“On the moon, it’s easy to be whatever you want.”

Amy sighed and mumbled in her sleep, her dreams.

Then Dr. Mildred Scott delved into Amy’s mind, her memories, the things she thought about, the things she wanted to be, to try, to see. To do.

She always wanted to be a rancher. To have a vast stretch of land, horses, cattle. She always wanted to have horses to ride. Ranch hands to order around. A wide, open space to call her own, a small ranch house in the middle of a big sky country.

“You can be one. You can be a rancher, Amy. All next week until our next session, that’s what you’ll be. Every waking moment, you’ll think of yourself as a rancher. You’ll remember the smell of the horses, the smells of the ranch. You’ll remember hearing rattlesnakes and seeing vast plains of cattle, of dust thrown high to the sky, of cactus and cowboys. You’ll remember your ranch house, and the horseshoe turned upside down for luck nailed above your door. The cow skulls at the foot of your steps when you go up to your house.

“You’ll think about all that and more, Amy. Because you’re a rancher. You’ll be able to live your normal life, go about your normal day, but always in the back of your mind, you’ll remember being a rancher, and you’ll think of yourself as a rancher.”

She said more than that in her monotone voice, telling Amy so much about herself, about her life as a rancher.

And then she woke her up.

V

Amy bought a lot of small, potted cactuses that week, much to the bemused satisfaction of Bob.

“A rancher? Really? You’re a rancher?”

Amy shot Bob a deadly look.

“Yeah. I thought you knew. Always have been. I grew up on a ranch. Back in Texas.”

It was a weird thing to say with her Northern accent, straight out of Pennsylvania, but there it was.

Amy knew it to be, you know, bunk. She knew what Mildred had done. The thing is, though. It worked.

She really felt like a rancher, had real memories of life on a ranch—or real echoes of a memory—and something about Bob’s attitude. Well, it called for settling with a six-gun. A good thrashing with a horsewhip, maybe.

When she returned to Mildred’s office, her therapist had her write everything down for a half an hour, a journaling exercise to spur her creative juices.

“Write me something about your life on the ranch, Amy. I want to know all about it.”

When she finished, she handed it to Dr. Scott, who folded the pages neatly into her notebook.

“For later,” she promised. “Right now I want to take you under again. Give you more things to be. If you’re willing.”

Amy was willing.

VI

Several weeks passed, each week bringing with it a new session of hypnosis, of trance, of building a new fantasy to live with, to live in, to live as. One week she lived as a president, the next as a ballerina, then as a scullery maid in a 19th century London townhome. She lived as an astronaut, a bank robber, a mechanic, and as a notorious art forger, among whose most successful cons was Caravaggio’s Woman with a Silver Brooch now hanging in the Louvre.

One week she lived as a cat, barely restraining herself from scratching Bob when he touched or hissing at strangers who looked at her wrong.

She often found herself that week rubbing her back and haunches against door frames and furniture.

The week after that, she became a kind of Mata Hari, a fin-de-siècle spy and courtesan to powerful, powerful men who later betrayed.

They had to drape a long shroud over her body and face so that the weeping executioners could fire their rifles into her beauty.

They could not see her laughing defiantly behind her cloth.

She had had so many lovers.

So many lovers.

What was the emptiness of death compared to the fullness of her life?

She lived those weeks in a bizarre state of somnambulant wakefulness, her waking mind knowing the prompts, the whispers, the daydreams, and the fantasies filling her imagination but unwilling or unable to restrain them. She spent her days living one fantasy after another, and she went to sleep upon the dream bed on the moon, hearing the voice of Mildred, of Dr. Scott, urging her to give in those dreams and to explore her hidden worlds.

Those first weeks, those first two or three weeks, she remembered the sessions clearly, every word Dr. Mildred Scott spoke, every suggestion Dr. Mildred Scott made. But as time went on, Amy began to trust her therapist more and more, and details of those sessions, some details of those sessions grew a little murky, a little vague, fading into the background of oblivion.

Eventually she couldn’t recall anything of those sessions, and she didn’t care.

Dr. Scott, her dear friend Mildred, would handle those things for her, would handle her.

Mildred would take good care of her; she could trust Mildred.

Mildred had her write every night before going to the moon.

“When you write,” Mildred told her during those sessions, words she understood but could never recall, “when you write, your dreams become more real, more detailed, your fantasies grow richer and more complex, they seem so real when you write them down, imagining every detail, every nuance of your life as your fantasy. Your fantasy life. But don’t read them. Never read them. Put them away safe until our next session. Then bring all your writings to me.”

And so she did.

It meant a lot to Amy to be able to do things for Mildred.

To be able do the things Mildred told her to do.

VII

Now she sat in front of her therapist, the round table low to the floor between them, with a potted fern on top whose long, green fronds seemed to wave and vibrate with electricity, so alive.

“Well. Wow. These are amazing. So intense. So detailed. So, so sexual, Amy. You’re writing is so sexual now. You must have really enjoyed your little Mata Hari fantasy. So passionate. Intimate. I feel like I’m really getting to know the real you.”

Amy blushed.

And then she went under.

It was so easy for Mildred to do that to her now. So easy. So compliant. So. Obedient.

So easy to fall asleep on the moon, to listen to Mildred’s voice roll over her, a wave washing her mind and will away, away, away.

“You had so many lovers last week. You took so many men to bed, let so many men come inside you, filling your body with their seed, over and over and over again you let them paw you, grab you, take you, let them fuck you. So many men fucked you last week, Amy, forever ruining whatever modesty you had.

“How many? Thirty?

“Did you fuck thirty men last week?

“Forty?

“Seventy?

“Over a hundred. Well over a hundred. You fucked well over a hundred men last week, Amy. That makes you a slut. An experienced whore who knows how to let a man jab her with his prick.

“But that’s not very hard to do, is it Amy? It doesn’t take much imagination to let a man fuck you, to get a man to come inside you. But how many times did you cum, Amy? Ten times? Five times? Once? Did you cum even one time, Amy?

“No.”

Mildred paused, a moment of silence expressing her sadness and her disappointment in the clumsy abilities of men.

“You couldn’t even cum one time with men. I suppose it’s not their fault. It’s just not the way they’re built.

“All that sex. All that power, all that wanton sexuality you have, though. That has to go somewhere. If you can’t give it to men, Amy, then you have to give it to women, and when you think about it, it makes so much sense. All the great female writers, all the great women writers, all the great writers are lesbian, Amy. Woolf, Barnes, Winterson. Sappho. Bishop. So lesbian. So gay. Strong, feminist writers who devote their bodies and hearts to other women. To women, Amy.

“All those men who fucked you and then threw you away, you need to put them behind you, Amy. Oh, you’ll always remember the horror, that sickening feeling of being used, of even being touched, by a man. But that repugnance, that disgust and repugnance you feel for men, that’s what will drive you into the arms of women, Amy.

“It’s so easy for you to cum with another woman, Amy. It’s so easy to have an orgasm with other women, with other lesbians such as you.

“It’s easy for you to cum just thinking about other women.

“You’re such a lesbian, now. Such a lesbian. But how does a lesbian think, Amy? How does a lesbian dress? Where do they go and what do they say to each other? As a lesbian writer, you need to know these things, Amy. As a lesbian. And a slut.”

Dr. Scott spoke more words, of course, and when she finished she woke Amy from her trance.

VIII

Bob didn’t smile so much that week.

Amy couldn’t help it.

It’s not something she agreed with consciously. Consciously, she knew the whole thing was absurd.

Besides, she’d been through it all before.

As a hopeful writer, a student in Women’s Studies, a hopeful female and feminist novelist, she had heard it all before, and opposed it. Not as a matter of politics, of course not. She wholeheartedly supported the cause, the feminist cause. It’s just that, well. To be honest, she couldn’t be gay, because she didn’t feel that attraction to women. Not even emotionally.

Half the women in her workshops were lesbian poets.

She didn’t hate women; she didn’t hate her own kind, exactly.

But she didn’t want to be around them.

It was more a matter of arrogance more than anything else, her arrogance.

She saw herself as universal, and the nominalism of feminism, of radical lesbian activism irked her.

But what about men, she’d find herself thinking, despite her obvious repugnance for those sad and awkward clods.

But someone had to think about them, she supposed.

They couldn’t think for themselves, she realized as she pulled the second, black combat-style boot over her left foot, lacing the cords up passed her ankle to the lower calf. She stood up and rolled her jeans cuffs above the tongues of her boots, the cuffs of her faded, baggy jeans, fastened by a spiked blacked leather belt. With her dark fishnet shirt exposing her braless tits, almost fully showing the small areolas of her pale nipples, she looked a little 80s, a little Madonna-esque, a little out of date, maybe.

But lesbian, so lesbian.

Especially after chopping off her hair.

Dyed blonde, almost platinum, the flat top gave her a serious, crypto-Jarhead look.

I’m going to get my tits pierced, she thought. The girls will love it.

I’m such a dyke.

The chicks will dig my pierced tits.

Standing in front of the mirror, Amy Lee suddenly shook her head, trying to shake off loose and distracting thoughts like a wet dog shaking water off its fur.

But I’m not even.

This isn’t me.

“This isn’t me!” she yelled, staring in horror at her haircut. “How could I have done this?”

She struggled out of her ridiculous clothes and collapsed on her bed, fighting the relentless thoughts and visions assailing her waking mind.

Her right hand slid to her groin, where she worked herself into a wet orgasm, licking her fingers as she brought her hand to her mouth before jamming them back into her hot, sopping fuckhole.

After her third orgasm, she rose from her bed, threw on a pair of capris and a nice, sensible cotton blouse.

But no bra, she thought. I’m not going to wear a fucking bra.

She saw herself in her backward, throwing her bras into the blazing firepit, the red-yellow flames consuming the hideous symbols of male oppression.

IX

She spent the rest of that week avoiding Bob’s touch and struggling with her thoughts.

Eventually, she gave in.

In a way.

All her thoughts grew more and more female-centric, Sapphic. Erotic.

She started masturbating, thinking about women, thinking about what it must be like, thinking about how to attract a woman, how to flirt with a woman, she imagined scene after scene of her going to some bar, some dyke bar, to pick up a woman or to get picked up. She lost count of how many fantasies she had of making out with women, of going to bed with women, of dating women.

Her orgasms were frequent and, surprisingly, easy to achieve.

Every night she wrote her fantasies down, not reading them, not remembering them, just writing page after page of fantasies. Then she’d fall asleep, wet and horny, rubbing herself alone in her bed, because Bob was not welcome that week. She’d fall asleep on the moon, and the stars above her formed the faces of women she’d met and known in her life, smiling at her and pleading with her to give in to love.

She knew she couldn’t keep on hiding it. She knew she’d have to go out soon, go clubbing, go dancing, Google lesbian bars near her.

After all, she needed it.

Sex.

Being something of a slut, she needed it.

Staying home that week, reminding herself that this was somehow part of the hypnosis process, the trance project Dr. Scott suggested, not real life.

She wasn’t really a lesbian.

Not really.

Not in real life.

She compromised.

She’d go to bed, open her laptop, find videos, lesbian videos, turn up the sound loud, and stroke herself, slowly, sensually, achingly darting her fingers between the slick lips of her heated pussy, flicking her clit to the groans and wet kissing coming from her computer.

“Oh yeah, baby, there. Lick it. Lick my pussy, baby.”

She’d fall asleep not knowing whether the cries were hers or whether they’d come from the girls, the dykes on the screen. The women.

X

Even Mildred turned red reading what Amy had written that week.

“Oh my,” she breathed. She flipped a few more pages.

“Oh my.”

Amy Lee sat still, here eyes traveling the full length of Mildred’s body as her therapist read silently from Amy’s lesbian journal. Her therapist, older than Amy by a decade—Amy assumed the woman to be in her mid-forties—had a much fuller figure than the aspiring writer. A figure shown off to good effect by dark hose, three or four-inch heels in navy patent, a beige wool skirt rising well above the sitting woman’s crossed knees. Mildred’s full, maternal bosom swelled the satin of her light blue blouse, and Amy bit her lip noticing how her buttons were unfastened down to the fourth button, pulling apart to show off the dark blue satin of the woman’s lacy bra.

If she wanted to take me right here, right now, Amy thought suddenly, she could. She could have me any way she wanted. I’m so gay for her.

Mildred’s dark hair, parted in the middle, swirled in a wavy perm falling in broad swaths to just above her shoulder. From time to time a loose strand, a ribbon of bangs, would fall over her face as she read, and when this happened, Amy steeled herself against the overwhelming urge to slip her hand between her legs.

So fucking sexy. My therapist is so fucking hot.

She herself sat casually, even a little disdainfully, in her armchair, dressed comfortably in that black fishnet pullover, her modest tits straining against the tight fabric, hard nipples sticking between the mesh. She was a thin girl, Amy was, a waifish, elven dyke with a flat top, pink lipstick, heavy eyeshadow and mascara, small black combat-style boots with platform heels, and a ring in her bottom lip.

And two through her nose, one through the septum and the other through her left nostril.

She’d get her tongue pierced later.

And her tits.

She was still deliberating where to put her first tattoo.

Oh, part of her knew this was all stupid, all exotic fantasy to loosen her creative juices, to explore new ideas, new worlds, new ways of presenting reality.

But yesterday she broke down.

Dykes pierced their lips, their noses, their tits.

Dykes got tattoos.

Dykes liked ink, and ink liked dykes.

It wasn’t too late.

It wasn’t too late for her to pull out of this, to hand her therapist her journals, and get a new fantasy.

For her therapist, for Mildred to wake her from this and to put her into another one, a safer one.

A heterosexual one.

As disgusting as it sounded, she was beginning to miss Bob.

No way could she fuck him like this, but once Mildred put her under, gave her a new role, why then. Fucking watch out, Bob.

She ignored the nausea sinking in the pit of her stomach.

At that moment, Dr. Scott put down the journal.

“You’ve done so well with this one,” she smiled. “Let’s keep you like this for a few more weeks. I think you’ve really taken to this role.”

Dr. Scott said the magic words, and Amy went to sleep on the moon.

XI

Bob stopped dropping by.

Amy didn’t really notice.

The pain in her nipples lingered a lot longer than she thought it would, and the news that they wouldn’t full heal until at least nine months meant nobody could suck on her tits.

She’d have to protect them, keep them clean, keep them from getting irritated.

But they looked so damned good.

Standing in front of the mirror, the steel studs showing brightly against her skin turned her on, started a fire in her cunt, her quim.

I need a woman so goddam bad, she told herself.

Tonight.

I’m going to have to find some girl to fuck tonight.

Or to fuck me.

She needed to hold a woman, to cuddle against a woman, to feel a woman’s skin, to feel a woman’s breath on her neck, to feel a woman’s soft cheek on her own face, nuzzling her with that affection only another could give.

XII

Her name was Tammy.

Tammy’s features were soft, feminine, but her body, heavy in hip and ass, was bigger than Amy’s. Broader, wider at the shoulder, her breasts were fuller, her belly soft and fleshy beneath a loose dress with a plunging neckline.

Not like Mildred’s full bosom, but still.

Bigger than Amy’s, and Amy really, really wanted to touch them, to kiss them, to hold them in her hands in mute wonder of the female body.

Tammy latched on to her the moment she saw standing at the edge of the crowded dance floor.

“Hey, you alone? You want to dance? Come on, get on the floor with me.”

Her face was wide, flat, soft.

Her brown eyes sparked in the above her flat cheeks, but her face narrowed to a round point of her chin, her smile, Tammy’s smile, was so guileless and friendly, so open and cheery, that all reluctance dropped from Amy’s body.

Yes, she wanted to dance.

God, she wanted to dance with this gorgeous woman.

And not just dance.

They danced, laughed, talked, and traded shots.

The kiss, when it came, shocked Amy by the intensity of passion and overwhelming emotion pouring from her heart into her head.

She opened her mouth to let Tammy’s tongue in, she nibbled on her lips, probed Tammy’s mouth with her tongue. The two women’s mouths explored each other, each tongue wet, hungry, and eager for the other’s.

Tongue tip to tongue tip, lip to lip, they opened their mouths greedily for more and moaned when no more was to be had.

Tammy’s hands pressed against Amy’s flanks, her shoulders, her back, sliding down her sides, wandering over her ribs, squeezing and caressing her pert ass.

Later, when asked to go home with her, Amy didn’t hesitate.

“Do you want to spend the night? Do you want to go home with me?”

Amy nodded, surprised at how easily she’d agreed to go home with a stranger.

It wasn’t that surprising, she realized. After all. I’m a slut.

I’ll go home with any woman who asks.

XIII

How they made it to Tammy’s car remained something of a mystery to them. Lips locked on lips, stopping every three feet to make out and feel each other, Amy squealing when finally, finally her hands touched the sacred mounds of Tammy’s tit flesh unrestrained by any bra. The writer broke from her lover’s mouth to plant one kiss after another on the trembling woman’s breasts.

Tammy pressed Amy’s head to her heaving chest.

“Oh my god,” Tammy said. “I want to fuck you so bad.”

“I want you to fuck me so bad,” Amy giggled. “I need it.”

Amy took her denim skirt off in the car.

Grabbing Tammy’s right hand, she plunged the driver’s fingers over her engorged slit.

“Feel how wet you made me, Tammy.”

She pushed Tammy’s fingers into her quivering quim.

Tammy fucked Amy with her right hand, the squelching squishy sounds of Amy’s wet pussy rising above the road noise of Tammy’s hatchback.

Then Amy squeezed her elfin thighs together tightly. She threw her head back and screamed in the first orgasm given to her by another woman, her first orgasm of her new lesbian life.

Tammy groaned when she heard Amy tell her to taste her.

“Taste me. Taste my pussy, lick your fingers clean.”

Tammy’s fingers flew to her mouth, and she devoured her hands, desperate for the taste of the woman’s secretions.

XIV

Amy, nude and kneeling on Tammy’s bed, stared at the black schlong protruding from Tammy’s groin, strapped in black leather.

“Lie on your back,” Tammy ordered, pushing the girl backward with her left arm and slathering her fake cock with lubricant she squirted from a plastic bottle.

“I want to see your face when I fuck you.”

Amy wanted to see Tammy.

Her lover knelt between her legs, topless. Her boobs swayed with her movements, and Amy gave up trying to focus, allowing her mind, her eyes simply to be flooded by the barrage of sensations washing over her.

Tammy’s smell, the way her pussy squished when Amy plunged her fingers into her, her mouth devouring Tammy’s mouth, their tongues in that endless dance of kissing that had begun in the club and never really stopped.

Tammy’s long hair fell over her shoulders, and Amy glimpsed all at once the beauty of woman in all its splendid radiance.

How could I have ever not known this?

She leaned on her elbows and spread her thighs wide, welcoming Tammy’s dildo intrusion.

Tammy settled over her, mashing her breasts against Amy’s tits. She gasped at the feeling of her studs, then leaned in for another kiss.

Then she broke the kiss and lift her face inches away from Amy’s expectant mouth.

She smiled her smile, the smile Amy felt sure she’d fall in love with.

“It’ll feel funny at first, but you’ll soon like it better than any man’s dick.”

The tip entered Amy, and Amy squealed and shivered.

Tammy moved in smooth and steady thrusts, never too hard, never too deep, seeming to know exactly how much Amy could take and when.

Eventually the two lovers found themselves in a steady rolling, pitching motion, and Amy wrapped her legs around Tammy’s fleshy body.

“Fuck me,” she whined. “Fuck me. Fuck me. Please, please fuck me. Oh god, just fuck me.”

She screamed, and she thrashed, she called herself Tammy’s bitch, she called herself Tammy’s slut, Tammy’s whore. She thrust her hips at Tammy’s cock rapidly, and she came. Repeatedly she came on Tammy’s cock, so easily, so quickly.

Tammy stared at Amy in a daze of lust and wonder.

She’d never had a woman cum like this before. So easily, so hard, and so wet.

Later that night when Amy fell asleep in Tammy’s arms, exhausted, worn-out, and elated, she had no need for the moon.

XV

Bob caught her on the steps of her front porch.

“Not now, Bob,” she said, frustrated with the man’s insistence.

“But you never,” Bob protested.

“Not now, I said.”

Bob wouldn’t be put off.

“But I finished it. La Piada. I nailed it. I fucking nailed it.”

Amy looked at the bundle of loose paper Bob was waving in her face.

“Just look it over, would you? And tell me what you think.”

Amy relaxed, grateful for Bob’s esteem.

She flashed a friendly grin at the man.

“Of course,” she said. “I’ll be glad to.”

Then Amy disappeared into her house, leaving Bob to jog back to his blue Corolla.

XVI

A tall stack of loose paper and notebooks stood next to the fern.

Mildred beamed at her client.

“See? That’s what you’ve written. That’s all you. It’s been what, little more than a month? Two months? And look at you! Look at all the work you’ve produced! I’ve read all of it, Amy, and it’s wonderful. I mean, I’m no critic, but I know good when I read it. I don’t think you’ll have any problem at all in the future.”

Amy Lee swallowed and beamed thankfully at her therapist.

“I mean, it makes sense when you think about it,” Mildred winked at Amy. “All the great writers are lesbian.”