The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Maybe not cold turkey. As the water streamed down my body for the second time that day, rivulets of dirt, grime, brown discolouration, I caught myself staring daggers into the new soap. The bar stared back?—something of a high-noon showdown.

The soap could wait. I wasn’t ready for the absolute numbness it would bring.

Similarly, I was growing used to the hair that tickled my skin with unfamiliar?—mildly forbidden?—regularity. Was it so bad that I liked the stubble crawling up my shins? Was there anything wrong with the longer patch of hair above my lady bits, spreading down my inner thighs? Stubble wasn’t quite the word for it, already. We were leaving that stage, entering something a little more forgiving. Easy on the follicles.

An inspection of one pit transgressed into an inspection of the other. Snowballed into a curious sniff, followed by a deeper dive. She smelled like cumin. The little hairs brushed against my nostrils and longed for the hot impress of my tongue. Was that shower-water? Or sweat from my afternoon unmentionables.

But no?—that’s not what I was doing. That’s not what this was for. I could compromise on the soap, and without a reason to leave the apartment anytime soon, what did it matter if I shaved or not? This could be a fun experiment?—something to take my mind off of these disturbing new interests.

I wasn’t in the shower for five minutes before I killed the stream. My ass was clean, my legs were free of anything that’d cause a rash. This would do.

Stepping out, I tip-toed out into the living room?—dripping all the while?—looking for that towel I’d left somewhere around here. Grabbed my phone to check the time and recalled my bedroom session earlier that day. Shuddered with revulsion.

The towel was right where I’d left it, incubating mildew on the floor. Whatever. I dried off and hardly noticed the smell?—if I opened a window, I was sure it’d be fine anyway. There were more pressing things to consider: the disaster zone around the futon. My lack of a pantry, now that most of those stores would have to find their way into the garbage. Even the garbage itself?—I’d pissed and shit on my clothes, I reminded myself. If I didn’t take care of this now, I risked letting her back in. I knew what she enjoyed. I knew what she was capable of making me enjoy.

Dressed now in some of my last clean clothes, I made my way out into ground zero. My phone buzzed behind me?—it could wait.

Years ago?—what felt like a lifetime?—I’d worked a crappy landscaping job at a local ritzy golf course. Making ends meet between semesters, and then a year trying to pay off the loans I’d accrued there. The memories which stuck with me now, though, were those summer storms. They’d roll in over the back property’s hill and crash down into our little valley with minutes’ warning. More often than not I was already out there trimming grass when the radio came in, “everybody grab a customer and get inside”.

We had plenty of tree coverage, and after every one of those storms?—probably two or three a year?—me and the guys would have to hook a trailer onto the back of a golf cart, drive around for a day or two grabbing brush. You’d be surprised at what a regular old summer storm can knock down. You’d be surprised how far it can blow.

I knew where I’d find a zucchini, but didn’t quite know how to handle the carrot. I had a bit of Lysol under the kitchen sink, but was afraid that something so potent risked numbing my sensitive bits for longer than I could handle. What would I have to do to get the feeling back then?, I worried. Opted for dish-soap instead?—it seemed like a fair compromise.

The rest of my blast radius was a blown-out forest of chips, soda, treats, snacks, and a few hardly-edible staples, all scattered across the futon’s edge, coffee table, ottoman, and the hardwood floor. Some version of me had evidently thrown herself at gluttony with the force of a summer storm. This me was determined to pick up the pieces. This me was, for some reason, content to ignore the dozens of text messages I could hear arriving in the bedroom.

There’s work to be done here, something said. Ignore that.