The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

CHAPTER 12

“Fresh from the shower! Still a lil’ dirty :—)” read her description. And I believed it. Beads of water still dripped down from the brunette curls we shared. Her eyes, drifting somewhere off camera, almost looked like she’d had someone take a candid picture—as if she didn’t know she was being captured in so vulnerable a state. But that was impossible: the image could only be a selfie. It was taken so close to Hannah’s face that just the crest of her collarbone could be made out, bright red with naked blush.

Something was up. The picture no doubt abided by Facebook’s community guidelines (or whatever you call them), but by my sister’s standards such a display of public flirtation could only be described as “slutty”. I scrunched my eyebrows suspiciously, checked my cellphone once more just to be sure. Clicked through to the next image and watched the mystery deepen.

She was clothed in this one—loosely. Were it not for her pouting face, I wouldn’t have recognized the girl as my sister. Her hair sprung in thick, brown clumps from her head to her shoulders, shorter than usual because so tangled. Pajama pants and a t-shirt, though the timestamp (and dimming window behind her) informed a suspicious reader that this photo was taken late in the day on the eighth—two days after she last spoke with Mom.

I doubt this one would set my worried mother’s nerves at ease, though. The picture was taken in what must’ve been Hannah’s bedroom, and the place was a mess. Clothes on the floor, sheets upended and mattress exposed in the corner. Had my sister just woken up? Was that bed-head? Or had she spent her entire day in that ensemble?

Impossible to tell, though a few oddities stuck out like clues: more content that spoke to a new-and-degraded version of my pandemic-era big sister. For instance: her neckline stretched deep and flagging, like she’d pulled it down past the fabric’s point of no return. The shirt was by many standards—certainly the strict ones I’d thought Hannah imposed—ruined. That’s not to mention the mustard stain on the hem, or—could that be what I thought it was? Her arm was raised over her head in this one, scratching the back of her neck, and—yes, it had to be. Hannah’s armpits were more than a little unkempt. Not quite furry, they’d definitely passed the stubble stage. “Christ, girl,” I snorted, “what did this lockdown do to you?”

It was amusing, of course, but I couldn’t completely give myself to the pleasure of seeing Hannah embarrass herself, even if so subtly. Her description for this image, for one, made me think she might’ve fallen in with the wrong crowd. “Don’t be lame, have no shame?” What did it even mean? Was it meant to draw attention to those hairy pits? No—nobody’d see that unless they were looking for it. Was it some kind of feminist mantra, then? That’d be a turn for Hannah, not the activist type. And why the question mark?

And then there were those eyes again. It was like she wasn’t aware of the photo being taken, but there was the iPhone, snug and flashing in her left hand. There was something eerie about this whole thing, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I clicked through to the next photo.

—and gasped.

This was only another two days later—the tenth—but it was clear that Hannah’s “fresh from the shower!” four days previous was the last time she’d taken it upon herself to clean up. Still in the bedroom (you could tell from the colour of paint on the walls), this one had my sister perched awkwardly on her stale, yellow-stained bedsheets. She was still wearing the same pajamas, but—I grimaced—patches of sweat had soaked through under her armpits, leading down a damp treasure-trail to where the picture cut off. If her stomach was that soaked, I could only imagine what her…

I caught myself, blinking to reset this unpleasant turn of thought. This was my big sister, after all. The thrill of being so disgusted was a new feeling, and one I fought off on basic instinct.

But still my heart raced as I inspected the photo, looking for more “clues”. Hannah was definitely aware of the camera, here. Headphones clamping down her greasy hair, she winked seductively at the viewing public. More than a mustard stain on the hem (though that had obviously been left to set in and stale), my sister was now spattered with crumbs, miscellaneous drips, creeping down her collarbone and discolouring her stretched-out neckline in an ironic grime-bib.

And that neckline was even lower, here. Was she doing this on purpose? Boobs didn’t run in our family, but Hannah’d always been larger in that department than me or Mom. She looked even larger, here, if that was possible. Maybe it was the lighting—the way the grease shined off her cleavage—but she was definitely emphasizing her assets for the camera. Holding them a little tighter than casual between her biceps.

I’d assume it was unintentional, were it not for the wink. Who was this girl? She hardly even looked like my sister, if I were being honest. So much of Hannah was presentation—clean-cut, wholesome, a lemon wedge of judgment. Hot when she needed to be, but mostly always cute. Who could know this more intimately than me? I grew up with her, jealous and pining as a teen, resentful and dismissive as an adult. It was her girl-next-door vibe that helped me define myself, I think, as a confused teen. If I couldn’t be that, then I’d have to be this. Punk. Emo. Scene. Whatever I was then. Whatever I am now.

Maybe that’s what got my heart racing, flipping through this strange visual retrogression of a slideshow. If I had, years ago, defined myself solely in relation to little-miss-perfect, then what did it mean for me when Hannah posted stuff to the internet like this? That had to be it, right? I almost found myself thinking in her voice. How can she think this is appropriate? How can she let people see her like this? How can she be so...skanky?

I chastised myself for that last one. What a bigoted way to think, and of my own flesh and blood, too. But still, I worried. Politically correct or no, the Hannah I knew would definitely have some choice words to describe the girl in this photo. “Trashy”, “Slob”, “Attention whore” were the three that came to mind.

What was I to make of any of it? And what should I have told my mother? The comments scrolled to Hannah’s right, and her friends seemed to be confronting a similar issue:

“You ok Han? Check your DMs.”

“Yo Hannah haven’t spoken since highschool! Lookin good in this one!”

“I can smell u from here.”

“Pandemic got the worst of you, eh? Maybe delete this.”

No leads there, but I felt a little better knowing I wasn’t the only one who saw something out of the ordinary going on here.

Hannah herself didn’t address any of the comments to this photo, but scrolling down, I saw that she provided her own some few hours after making her original post: “Facebook sent me two warnings 4 other posts. prob gonna get banned ;—) follow me on tiktok @handyletsgo”. The comment had a dozen likes—male users whose names I didn’t recognize.

We’re there posts I was missing, then? Deleted for violating Facebook’s community guidelines? And if so, why?

It was unnerving and exciting, this sweaty rabbithole. I took the bait, and plucked my phone from where it sat beside me. Hell, I’d been meaning to download that stupid app anyway.

“@handyletsgo,” I muttered. “Christ.” What sort of stuff could she possibly be uploading?