The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Tuesday:

Karen Tuttle woke early.

She had been very tired when she’d finally gotten home. She had gone straight to bed and slept like a rock. This morning she felt much better.

She got up and considered what to wear for her meeting with the dean. Reluctantly, she decided against anything like the stunt she’d pulled at her confrontation with the ASPC board. It would be fun while it lasted, a final gesture of defiance—but it was too likely to get her arrested again, and this time Nick wouldn’t be around to bail her out. She settled on a dark blue pantsuit and white pumps.

After dressing, she went out for breakfast. She was ravenously hungry. She hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast the day before—she’d been too upset for lunch after hearing the board’s verdict, and too tired for supper when she’d reached her own apartment at last.

There was a little café a few blocks from her place. Usually she went there to celebrate after good news. Today, she wanted the ambiance to help cheer her up.

The sun was shining as she set out toward the restaurant. Its warm brightness lifted her spirits somewhat as she walked briskly down the street, her heels clicking on the pavement like hooves. Down to the corner, then across; down three blocks and across again, and there she was.

She ate voraciously: a stack of pancakes, sausage, juice, large coffee and a rich Danish disappeared in no time. At last, full, she contemplated the day ahead.

It didn’t look promising. She had to go in to the University to sign the forms which would put her on the unemployment line. After that, what was there for her to do?

Karen thought of Nick, and smiled. If she was going to be out of a job, there was nothing, really, to tie her to this town. Why not move? Why not, in fact, move in with Nick? She was sure he’d be willing.

But, she asked herself, what about a job?

An idea came to her, and her smile grew wider. Why the hell not? She thought. With her academic career in ashes, maybe it really was time to—how had Withers put it on the phone?—“pursue other opportunities.”

Dean Withers’ office might have belonged to a corporate CEO. Deep-piled carpeting lined the floor. Bookcases and filing cabinets stretched along the side walls. A large window occupied almost all of the wall behind his rich oak-paneled desk, allowing the morning sunlight to stream in unimpeded. The Dean himself was a perfect fit for such an environment: trim, fiftyish, with neatly-trimmed salt-and-pepper hair. His charcoal suit and black tie completed the impression of competent, conformist conservatism.

When Professor Tuttle arrived for her appointment, Withers stood politely until she had taken a seat, then sat down again. Silence followed for a few moments, softened only by the faint sounds of music from a radio in an adjacent office.

Dean Withers opened a briefcase on his desktop and pulled out a set of documents. He looked them over carefully, nodded and finally spoke: “These are the necessary documents to implement your departure from DeLane, on the terms we discussed. Look them over; you’ll find everything in order. The places for your signature are marked.” He reached across the desk and handed the papers to Karen.

She scanned the sheets and finally echoed Withers’ earlier nod. “Everything seems fine, Dean Withers.” She bent her head and carefully signed at the indicated spots, then returned the forms to Withers.

As he took them, the Dean frowned. Looking solemnly at Karen, he said, “I’m sorry to see things end this way. Until, well, this business at Mason, you’d had an exemplary record, both here at DeLane and elsewhere. Your lecture tours in particular were an ornament to our institution.”

“I know,” Karen interrupted. Dean Withers scowled.

“I’m sorry,” she quickly added, face reddening. “That came out wrong. I meant, I always tried my best to live up to the ideals of the university.” “What happened, then?” Withers seemed genuinely concerned.

“I wish I could tell you,” Karen answered, averting her eyes. What would you say, she wondered, if I told you about Dr. Abaddon and his magic pendant? Probably, you’d be sure I was crazy—and why not? Maybe I am. “I just guess professoring isn’t for me anymore.”

Withers sighed. “I suppose there’s nothing more for me to say, then.” He stood and extended his hand.

Karen got up and shook the Dean’s outstretched hand.

The low music penetrating the Dean’s office abruptly changed as a new song came on. After a few moments, Karen recognized it.

“That Old Black Magic.”

A sudden impulse surged through her. She had promised herself she’d behave at this meeting, but the unexpected sound of what seemed to have become her personal theme song weakened her resolve. Every note ate further into her control.

She mopped her forehead. “My,” she said, “it’s getting warm in here all of a sudden.” She removed her jacket and draped it carefully over her chair. “Or is it me?” She smiled.

“Excuse me?” Dean Withers responded.

“It’s me, all right, Dean Withers,” Karen said teasingly. “Or can I call you Horace?” No one used Withers’ first name—not even, so rumor said, his wife.

Flustered, Withers stammered, “N-no. Certainly not!”

“Oh, c’mon,” coaxed Karen. “It’s your fault I’m so hot, you know.” She leaned forward, bracing herself on Withers’ desk with her right hand while her left stole to the top button of her crisp white blouse. The button popped open, exposing a hint of cleavage.

“Wh-what do you mean?” The Dean’s face was slowly turning red.

“That old black magic has me in its spell,” she crooned. “That old black magic that you weave so well.” By now, she was lagging well behind the song still gently wafting through the office wall, but she didn’t care; the tune and the lyrics were burned into her brain.

Another button popped open, and Karen leaned a bit farther forward to give Dean Withers a good look.

He looked. He struggled to keep his eyes on her face, but it was obvious he was having trouble. His face was brick-red now, and he was breathing faster.

“Please,” Withers protested weakly. “Miss—I mean Professor Tuttle, you shouldn’t, I can’t. . . .”

Karen ignored his words. She arched her back and left off tampering with her blouse to cup Withers’ face with her hand, forcing his chin up until their gazes met. “Those icy fingers up and down my spine,"—she shivered playfully—“the same old witchcraft when your eyes meet mine.”

Withers gulped.

Karen smiled wider. Minutes ago, Withers had been in charge. Now, she’d seized control. God, it felt good! What had she been thinking, to be a “good girl” at her own firing? It was much more fun this way!

Let them arrest her, she decided. It would be worth it!

“The same old tingle that I feel inside,” she cooed, “and then that elevator starts its ride.” As she sang, she leaned farther and planted her right knee on Withers’ desk. “And down and down I go.”

She slithered onto the desk and oozed toward the Dean, bending her back so that her firm, ample breasts slid squishily over the polished surface while her buttocks waved high. As she moved, supporting herself with one hand again, she popped open the remaining buttons of her blouse.

“Round and round I go,” Karen warbled, and spun around on the desktop. She sat up, knees at the desk’s edge, pointing toward Dean Withers, and peeled her unbuttoned shirt off languidly. She tossed it aside. “Like a leaf that’s caught in the tide.” Dr. Abaddon’s pendant dangled glittering between her exposed breasts.

Withers whimpered. He was gaping helplessly now, all thoughts of stopping Karen forgotten in the rush of blood away from his brain to parts lower down. A thin thread of saliva was beginning to collect at one side of his mouth. Karen giggled; the Dean was drooling!

A new song was filtering through the wall now, but neither Karen nor her victim noticed.

“I should stay away, but what can I do? I hear your name and I’m aflame.” Karen slipped easily off the desk into Withers’ lap. Mindlessly, he reached out to gather her in. “Aflame with such a burning desire,” she clasped Withers’ head in her hands, lacing her fingers in his hair and pulling him forward, “that only your kiss can put out the fire.” Her lips covered his in a fiery caress, and he responded eagerly.

“For you’re the lover I have waited for,” she informed him, “the mate that Fate had me created for. And every time your lips meet mine,” she kissed him passionately again, “darling, down and down I go; round and round I go, in a spin, loving the spin I’m in, under that old black magic called love!”

Dean Withers was lost, consumed by lust. As Karen wriggled out of the rest of her clothes, he reached for his own. Off came his jacket, tie and shirt; next, Karen, still on his lap, helped him squirm out of his trousers and the boxer shorts underneath. He was wearing only his shoes and socks when the chair holding the two of them fell over, depositing them on the carpet with a muffled thump.

They didn’t care. Caught up in desire, they moved together, Withers thrusting deep into Karen, the formerly dignified Professor Tuttle clawing at his back and grabbing his head to force his face into her cleavage.

At last Dean Withers and Karen Tuttle came back to reality. With a sigh, Withers eased out of Karen, sat up and began to put his clothes back on. Smiling, Karen also began to reclothe herself.

Presently the two of them were dressed again. Dean Withers returned to his seat. Karen gathered up the forms she’d filled out; they had been scattered onto the floor in her crawl across Withers’ desk. Karen stood looking down at him with her head tilted quizzically, one index finger pressed into her cheek.

“Well,” she said. “I guess that’s it, then.”

“I . . . I . . .” Withers’ voice trailed off. He looked weak and pliable as he sat there gazing at Karen, a silly grin on his face. She suspected that if she chose, she could easily talk him into giving her back her job now.

She didn’t choose to. It would be pointless; even if he went along, the university’s trustees probably wouldn’t—and she couldn’t get to all of them the way she’d manipulated wishy-washy Withers. Besides, she didn’t want the job anymore anyway.

Karen nodded, turned, and left the office, head held high. She went straight home.

Nick had given her his phone number, scribbled on a small piece of yellow note paper. After a little searching, she found it buried in her pocketbook.

Her lover was home when she called.

“Yes?” he answered. Karen knew his phone had caller ID, but she’d never given him her number at home; of course he wouldn’t recognize it.

“It’s me,” she said. “Karen.”

“Hi, honey,” came the cheerful response. “Where are you calling from?”

“Home,” she told him. “My actual home, I mean. Although it looks like I’ll be moving soon.” She explained what had happened since they’d last seen each other, and finished, “I was wondering if you’d mind if I moved in with you, at least for the time being.”

Nick was silent for a few seconds, long enough for Karen to start worrying that he was about to say no. But he didn’t.

“Of course you can,” he reassured her. A warm note crept into his voice. “You can stay as long as you like—forever, as far as I’m concerned.”

Nick’s words made Karen feel warm inside. “Thanks so much,” she gushed. “I’ll be coming as soon as I make arrangements for my stuff here.”

“Fine,” Nick concluded. “I’ll be waiting for you. And of course, if you need any help, let me know. ‘Bye now.”

He hung up.

Karen looked around her apartment. Regretfully, she decided that most of her things would have to go into storage, at least for the time being. Having made that decision, she went carefully through her rooms, identifying the items she wanted to take with her.

There was surprisingly little. Her furniture, her books, the little knickknacks she’d accumulated over the years—none of it really appealed to her now, she found. Even most of her clothes seemed dowdy to her. I’m a whole new me, she thought, giggling. Out with the old, in with the new!

She set about methodically packing.

Friday:

Karen waved goodbye as the storage-service van pulled away. The driver grinned and waved back. He’d enjoyed his visit, and so had his two muscular helpers. Karen had dressed in a tiny black miniskirt, thin white blouse with plunging neckline, sheer stockings and white pumps with six-inch heels, and she’d made sure to give the guys plenty of good views as they worked.

The clothes, of course, were new. She’d gone shopping on Wednesday to pick out a few new outfits more in keeping with her new and improved personality. Very few of her old clothes appealed to her anymore, and there was no sense keeping things she wouldn’t want to wear.

Actually, she suspected she’d end up throwing out most of the stuff she’d so carefully arranged to store. Only some lingering ghost of the old Karen Tuttle felt any real attachment to it now. Still, perhaps she could sell some of it, make a few bucks.

She looked around her at the remains of a life. Some small part of her mind whispered that she ought to feel more—regret? guilt?—at leaving it all behind, but she didn’t.

She collected the suitcases containing the remnant of her belongings she’d chosen to take with her and bundled them into her car. It was only four o’clock; if she hurried, she could be at Nick’s place by eight, early enough for the two of them to go out for supper.

It was just before eight when she pulled up in front of Nick’s building. The security guard, one she hadn’t seen before when she’d come with Nick, frowned at her as she stepped inside. From the disapproving way he looked her over, Karen guessed he thought she was some kind of hooker. Laughing to herself, she had to admit her outfit was pretty suggestive.

She was briefly tempted to put on a real show for him. Her recent experiences had taught her that these stuffy types tended to be very susceptible to her charms when she went after them. But no, she decided at last; she was here to see Nick. She contented herself with giving the uniformed man a dazzling smile and a nice long look at her cleavage before pressing the intercom buzzer for Nick’s apartment.

“Yes?” came Nick’s voice. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me,” Karen said. “I’m finally here.”

“Come on down,” responded Nick. A different buzzer sounded, over the inner door; Karen grasped the door handle, swung the glass-paneled door open and went inside. A couple of minutes later, she was at the door to Nick’s apartment.

She didn’t even have to knock. Just as she raised a hand to do so, the door swung open, revealing her youthful boyfriend.

“Hi, Karen honey,” he greeted her. “Are you here to stay, then?”

“Yeah,” answered Karen. “I guess I am, if it’s still okay with you.”

“This’d be a hell of a time for me to change my mind, wouldn’t it?” Nick’s smile was mischievous. “Don’t worry; of course it’s okay with me.”

“My stuff’s outside in my car,” Karen told him.

“Do you want to bring it in now?” Nick asked. “Or would you rather wait till morning? I’m okay with it either way.”

Karen’s stomach suddenly rumbled, and she laughed. “Morning it is,” she answered. “I’m hungry.” She looked at Nick. “Why don’t we try the Thirteen Club for supper? When we were there before, I noticed they served food—it didn’t look half bad, either.”

Nick nodded, smiling. “Maybe we can catch Dr. Abaddon’s second show afterward.”

“That’d be okay with me,” Karen said. “He’s got a great act, I’ll say that much.”

Dr. Abaddon’s first show had just ended when they arrived. There were a number of free tables; Nick picked one down in front with a clear view of the stage. A waiter appeared as they sat down. He set a pair of menus on the table and waited patiently while the couple looked them over.

There was a good selection. Nick choose a grilled salmon dish; Karen went with a thick steak, rare, with a baked potato and green beans on the side. Both of them ordered martinis as well. The waiter wrote down their selections, nodded and left.

Karen and Nick looked toward the stage as a faint mechanical whir began. Two gleaming brass poles rose from the stage floor until they socketed into place in artfully-concealed overhead fixtures. When they were fully extended, the club’s emcee appeared.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “allow me to present the beautiful, the magnificent, the unparalleled—Bounti . . . BLAZE!“

Throbbing music began as a spectacularly-endowed redhead made her entrance, clad in a sequined robe. As the audience watched, Bounti Blaze writhed and peeled to the music. When she was down to a tiny glittering G-string and heels, she pulled a long cylindrical object and what appeared to be a pack of matches out of her discarded robe, lit a match and touched it to one end of the cylinder. It burst into flame.

Bounti Blaze pranced across the stage, waving the torch like a majorette’s baton. At last she went down on one knee, arched her back, tilted back her head and thrust the blazing end into her mouth. When she pulled it away, the torch was out.

The audience clapped wildly, but she wasn’t done yet. She opened her mouth and a long tongue of flame jetted forth.

As she rose to her feet, the applause grew frenzied. Facing the audience, the performer smiled and bowed deeply, giving them a deep look into her amazing cleavage. Then she gathered up her costume and scampered offstage.

Karen felt a stab of jealousy as she glanced across at Nick. Her lover had obviously enjoyed the show.

Their drinks arrived, and then their dinner. As they drank and then ate, more dancers appeared and went through their acts. Occasionally, comedians came on, interrupting the parade of female flesh—not often enough, as far as Karen was concerned. She began to wish she hadn’t suggested coming to the club. What was I thinking? she wondered.

Finally the emcee appeared to announce Dr. Abaddon’s ten o’clock performance. Karen tried not to show her relief. She didn’t altogether succeed; Nick’s smile, when she looked at him, had a faint edge of amusement, even mockery.

Abaddon’s act was as spectacular as ever. Karen still had no idea how he pulled off the stunts he did. It no longer bothered her, however. When it was over, she clapped enthusiastically along with everyone else.

Afterward, she turned to Nick. “Excuse me,” she said. “I need to talk to Dr. Abaddon a minute.”

Nick looked at her quizzically, one eyebrow raised. “Okay,” he responded, “if they’ll let you. But what for?”

“Um,” Karen floundered, “nothing important. I just, ah, want to ask him something, is all.”

Nick nodded. Karen got up and headed toward the stage.

As if he’d been waiting for her, Dr. Abaddon suddenly appeared. “Professor Tuttle!” he greeted her warmly. “Such a pleasure to see you again.”

Karen flushed. “I’m afraid it’s not really Professor Tuttle anymore,” she admitted, avoiding the magician’s eyes.

“Oh?” Abaddon gestured toward the door to the left of the stage. “Come on back to my dressing room, my dear, and tell me all about it.”

Karen went.

“So you see,” she finished, “I’m not really a professor anymore.” She and Dr. Abaddon were in the magician’s backstage suite. Under his prodding, she had told him all about what had happened to her. “And I don’t want to be.”

“What do you want?” asked Abaddon.

Karen thought of the dancers she’d seen out front. She remembered how jealous she’d been of the way her Nick had looked at them, responded to them. And, she admitted to herself, there was more: she couldn’t help wishing it had been her up there, performing and receiving all that applause. She thought of how she’d felt when she’d danced at Nick’s frat party, and—she smiled—at the ASPC tribunal, how it had felt to know that guys were getting off looking at her.

“I want to dance,” she said. “Like the girls here. That’s what I want.”

Dr. Abaddon smiled at her. He reached out and lifted his pendant from where it nestled between Karen’s breasts. By reflex, Karen looked down at it.

“Do you remember what I told you the last time you were here?” Abaddon asked her. “I said that if you removed my pendant, you could go back to being just the way you were before.”

“I remember,” Karen answered.

“What if I told you that if you took it off, not only would you go back to being the same person you used to be, but everything you’ve done since you put it on would be wiped away, too, as if it had all been a dream? That you’d have your job, your professional standing, your reputation, all back?”

Karen stood silent.

“That’s the offer I make,” Abaddon told her. “One last chance. If you take my amulet off right now, that’s what will happen.” He paused theatrically, then added, “But if you leave it on—or if I take it off—everything will stay the way it is now.

“Choose, Karen Tuttle. Which is it to be?”

Karen smiled. “You take it off, Doctor. I like the way I am now!” The implausibility of the choice she’d been offered didn’t register; all that mattered was how she felt about it.

Abaddon’s smile broadened. He took hold of the chain around Karen’s neck and gently eased it over her head. He handed the ornament back to her.

Karen shook her head, the motion ruffling her dark hair slightly. Nothing felt different, except for the absence of the slight weight of Abaddon’s trinket at her throat.

“The choice is made, freely and of your own will,” Abaddon intoned. “Let it be so, now and forever.”

“So, Doctor,” Karen said, “what about what I want? Do I get to dance?” Her eyes were alight with eagerness.

“Of course,” the answer came. “Of course. Come by the club tomorrow afternoon and I’ll have the manager, Mr. Caniff, give you a tryout. If he likes what he sees—and I’m sure he will—we’ll sign all the necessary paperwork. You should be able to start by Monday, once we’ve worked out the scheduling.”

Saturday:

The poles had been raised for Karen’s tryout. She spun around one of them, slowly extending her legs as she revolved on so that she slid a bit further down with each turn. “And then that elevator starts its ride,” she warbled, “and down and down I go, round and round I go, like a leaf that’s caught in the tide.”

She had no idea where they’d come up with the costume she was using, but she loved it: a faux graduation outfit, the gown slit up the sides to allow her to flash her long legs and wide-necked, draped loosely about her shoulders, the cap a snug fit which guaranteed it wouldn’t come off until she wanted it to. As she spun around and down, holding onto the pole with her right hand, she worked her left arm out of the gown through its open top. Then, clamping her legs around the pole, she pulled her right arm out before grasping the pole with that hand once more. She shimmied as she spun, using her left hand to help draw the gown down further, past her breasts, then her waist, over her hips—pumping hard now as she maintained her leglock on the pole—and finally down her thighs and calves. All the while, she continued to sing; as she did, she did her best to maintain eye contact with the Thirteen Club’s manager. Finally, as she slid to the bottom of the pole and began spinning around its base, she kicked off the gown now tangled around her ankles.

“Darling, down and down I go; round and round I go,” she finished, “in a spin, loving the spin I’m in, under that old black magic called love!” At the last word, she reached up and tossed away the tasseled mortarboard on her head.

She lay back on the stage and waited, smiling, clad now only in G-string, heels, and Dr. Abaddon’s amulet, which she had put back on as part of her costume. After a moment, a loud clapping began. Tilting her head, she saw it was the club manager, a tubby little bald man.

“Great!” he shouted. ”Great! You’re hired, honey!”

Karen wriggled back into her gown, collected her cap and stood up. As she was dressing, the manager spoke to Dr. Abaddon.

“She’s perfect,” he said. “You sure can pick ‘em, Doc!”

The magician smiled. “Thank you. But of course, she picked herself; she asked me to help her apply for a job dancing here.”

There was, of course, more to it than that, as Karen knew perfectly well. She didn’t care. All that mattered was that she was going to be able to strip on stage in front of an audience. She had never wanted anything more fiercely in her life!

Nick was there too. As she climbed down off the stage, Karen saw him grin and wave at her. She waved back.

Then the club manager closed in on her, diverting her attention. “C’mon in back, honey. We’ll sign the papers there.” He rubbed his hands together gleefully. “You’ll knock ‘em dead!”

She went with him, leaving Nick and Dr. Abaddon behind.

For a moment after Karen and Caniff departed, Karen’s blond boyfriend and the mysterious magic-man regarded each other. Then, as if on cue, they approached each other. Even when they were close enough to touch, they kept going.

Just as had happened on the stage when Abaddon’s image had stepped out of the mirror and then merged with him, the two flowed together. A translucent Nick turned within the half-obscured form of the Doctor until the two were facing in the same direction. Then he faded from view entirely, until there was only Abaddon.

The Doctor began to laugh. Chuckling evilly, he passed through a side door marked by an EMPLOYEES ONLY sign. Behind it was an elevator.

He pressed the down button. The door opened immediately, and he stepped in; the elevator hissed closed behind him and descended.

When it opened again, Abaddon stepped out into a vast cave-like room which seemed to glow dull red with heat. He was no longer the urbane stage performer who had entered the elevator cage; instead, a naked humanoid form with horns, red skin, and hairy goatlike legs stalked forth, cloven hooves clattering on the hard floor and eyes blazing with yellow light. A long barbed tail flicked behind him.

Smaller creatures of the same sort prostrated themselves before him. “Welcome, Lord Abaddon!” they chanted in unison.

Abaddon—no longer “Dr. Abaddon”; that was merely one mask among many, and here there were no masks—ignored them. Seemingly endless hordes of them knelt before him, and in a gesture of supreme contempt, he used them as living steppingstones, marching from bent back to bent back until he reached the craggy throne which was his by right.

After a timeless interval (for in the realm he now occupied, time had no meaning) during which he amused himself in ways which would have horrified Karen Tuttle—even the Karen Tuttle who now existed—he returned to the elevator, pressed its up button and entered. As it rose, his inhuman form shifted—first into that of the tall, lean, dark-haired Dr. Abaddon and then into that of the handsome young Nick. All the way up, he laughed wildly.

When he stepped out, it was as if he had just left. Karen was still backstage in the manager’s office fulfilling his promise to her when they had first met; she had, indeed, been recruited for the Thirteen Club as a stripper, and there was no doubt of her enthusiasm.

“Nick” smiled an evil smile totally out of character for the youth whose guise he now wore, and for just a moment, his eyes blazed yellow. Then, in one smooth motion, the figure of Dr. Abaddon separated itself from that of the handsome curly-haired youth. Abaddon stepped away, and he and the other settled themselves to wait.

Soon enough, Karen emerged. When she saw Nick, she hurried over to him, laughing.

“I start Monday,” she said. Giggling, she added, “Mr. Caniff suggested a stage name for me: Kari Kupcakes.” Bringing her hands up to lift and knead her breasts, she asked playfully, “What do you think?”

Eyeing her, Nick responded, “Sounds good to me!” He laughed boyishly.

Their lovemaking that night was particularly intense. Karen was driven to new heights of passion by the images which surged through her mind, images of her in her new role, dancing before crowds of eager males. Nick played along; as Karen rode atop him, he stuffed several dollar bills into her cleavage, deepening the fantasy for her. While they moved against each other, Nick’s CD player filled the air around them with the notes and lyrics of “That Old Black Magic.”

Today:

Nick and Karen still live together.

As Kari Kupcakes, Karen performs nightly at the Thirteen Club. Her favorite costume is the cap and gown she wore at her tryout. She wears it with Dr. Abaddon’s amulet, which is very eye-catching as it bounces between her breasts—especially now that, at Dr. Abaddon’s suggestion, she has undergone two enhancement operations. She has become very popular, and has recently starred in an erotic DVD. She has no regrets about leaving her old life as Professor Tuttle behind.

She has adopted “That Old Black Magic” as her theme song and strips to it regularly, peeling away her clothes to its beat as she rotates around and down a pole, loving the spin she’s in.