The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Christine! What are you doing?”

“I’m going topless. What does it look like I’m doing?” She whirled the bikini top around, then flung it away.

“Put that back on!” Jenna assumed that Christine had signed the same contract she had—the phrasing was exactly the same, and Christine had made a point of catching the director’s attention. “Quick, before the five minutes are up!”

“Or else what? They’ll turn into pumpkins?”

“Or else they can make you pose any way they want and turn this into a total porn show!”

Christine struck a pose designed to present her “pumpkins” front and center to one of the nearer cameras. “Don’t be silly,” she finally said. “If they wanted to turn it into a ‘total porn show’, why didn’t they just hire porn starlets?”

Jenna didn’t have an answer to that.

“I’m just spicing things up a little.” She turned toward Jenna and struck another pose, cupping her tits in her hands and gently bouncing them. “Come on. You know you want to.”

“No way!” Jenna crossed her arms over her chest.

“If you want to be a tightass prude, it’s your loss.” She grinned. “The offer’s open any time you want to change your mind.”

Jenna pointedly looked away from the other woman. “Fine. You do what you like. I tried to warn you.”

The girl with the now-empty basket of wind-up floating toys blew a whistle.

“Well, I’ve got a warning for you. If you don’t hurry up, I’m taking all the rubber duckies.” Christine jumped in and began chasing the nearest one.

“Gah!” Jenna took a few steps and dived in a dozen yards away from the other woman. She grabbed one of the toys, climbed out of the pool, and sprinted to her basket. She definitely wanted to upstage Christine by winning the game.

It was silly, she knew. Even if she got fewer points, the images of her bare tits as she scored them would surely be featured more prominently in the final production. That wasn’t important. She was putting on her best show. That was what she’d signed up to do.

She ignored the little nagging voice that suggested that she could put on a better show if she followed Christine’s lead.

As she rushed back to the pool after scoring her eighth point, she saw Christine flailing in the water, just within arm’s reach of the pool edge.

“Jenna! Help!” she cried. She sank, and rose again. “Jenna!”

What the hell was going on? The water was only five feet deep; she ought to be able to simply stand up. Was she having some kind of cramps? Did she hurt herself?

A flash of white at the edge of her vision caught her attention. Merry was holding up a big cue card. It read “GIVE HER MOUTH TO MOUTH”.

Of course. With all the lesbian innuendo in this show, something like that was inevitable. Well, the director had just told her what to do. She could only get it over with as innocuously as possible.

She grabbed Christine’s arms. It was easy to lift the other woman out of the pool; she was much more helpful and cooperative than any genuine panicky “drowning victim”. She laid Christine down at the side of the pool, bent over her, and put her mouth to the other woman’s. The next thing she knew, she was reflexively clamping her lips together to keep out Christine’s tongue. She “blew” into the “victim’s” lungs, then came up for air herself.

Merry was holding up another cue card: “OPEN MOUTH!” “Open” was underlined twice.

For a moment, she wondered if she really had to do this. The moment passed, and doubt was replaced by absolute certainty. The definitions in her contract were clear. Letting herself be French kissed by another woman under the guise of performing mouth-to-mouth on her was “sexually suggestive”, not “sexually intimate”. This was within the requirements of her contract. She could not refuse.

Jenna bent down over Christine and assumed the position as ordered. The other woman’s tongue thrust up into the opening; her own tongue tried to keep it at bay. The osculation was repeated again and again and again, until Christine finally coughed and started to “recover”.

Christine’s boobs jiggled with each blatantly bogus cough. Anybody watching this scene would know that the whole “drowning” was totally fake, not that they’d care.

Finally, Christine spoke, in a surprisingly clear voice for her supposed situation. “Thanks. You saved my life. I don’t know how I can pay you back.”

I’ll bet you have some ideas, Jenna groused to herself.

The game was cut short in deference to the “accident”. That was one more little thing to be annoyed about; by her count, she was ahead eight to six. Merry probably gave Christine the signal after deciding that a half-dozen bare-bosomed stretches had given them enough footage.

She strode over to Merry’s director chair. “I know that whole thing was set up so you could get pictures of her trying to swallow my tonsils. Why didn’t you at least give me fair warning?”

“I wanted you to react naturally to the emergency.”

“Oh, come on! I knew from the beginning that the only ‘emergency’ she was having was with her hormones! It’s pretty obvious that she’s trying to put the moves on me for real, not just part of the show!”

Merry looked her in the eye. “If you have a problem with me or Christine, why don’t you quit?”

Jenna stared at her blankly She understood all those words, but the concept was unthinkable.

Again, ironclad certainties clicked into place in her head. Quitting was not an option. She had to fulfill her duties under the contract. She would fulfill her duties under the contract.

“I... can’t...,” she finally stammered.

“I’m glad to hear that you intend to satisfy your contractual obligations.”

“Yes, I intend to satisfy my contractual obligations.” Jenna spoke the words like an oath. They felt like an oath. She couldn’t imagine herself breaking that oath. It was simply not a possibility.

“Good!” Merry’s expression softened. “Now, is there anything else I can do for you?”

“I know this might sound like a vote of no confidence. I don’t mean it that way—I totally believe in this project!” Jenna paused. “I’d like to ask about being credited under a pseudonym.”

The contract provided that option. Both the performer and the employer had to agree. That was one of the points she’d intended to renegotiate before she’d somehow gotten so caught up in the project that she signed the contract as offered.

Merry looked at her, apparently expecting her to continue.

“I hope you don’t think I’m being prudish. I don’t have a problem with going in front of the cameras like this,” Jenna said, her hands sweeping down her sides from chest to hips to indicate her skimpy bikini. “But Christine is pushing it over the line into porn. That’s a line I’d rather not cross. It could be a problem with getting other jobs I want.”

Merry waited a moment to see if Jenna had anything more to say. Finally she answered. “I’m not going to pass judgment on your reasons.”

She patted Jenna on the shoulder reassuringly. “I realize that this show is more ‘sexually suggestive’ that you might have expected, so I planned ahead for this. That’s why we gave you green-eyed contacts and a new hairstyle, so if people recognize your face you can plausibly say that the woman in “Girlfriends’ Getaway” is really someone else.”

“So that’s why you put that fake-tattoo heart on my neck.”

“Yes. Putting it there hides it most of the time. Even when it peeks out a bit, your hair usually obscures it enough to cover up any blurring or fading. But it does show up often enough to serve its purpose.”

“Christine pointed it out in the first scene and made a joke about it. Was that your idea?”

“No, but it worked out perfectly.” Merry looked thoughtful for a long moment, then gave her reply to the request. “I’ll talk to the executive division and get back to you. I don’t think there will be any problem, but I can’t promise you anything until I hear back from them.”

Based on everything Jenna knew about show business, that was a flimsy excuse. This project couldn’t possibly be running in such an amateurish free-form way if anybody at the “Got Game!” corporate offices was paying any attention to it. It had to be one of those deals where management gave some mid-level producer a small budget to try an experiment. If it worked, great; if not, the higher-ups were absolved of any responsibility. Anything that normally required top executive approval got delegated down to the mid-level producer at the site, keeping the higher-ups’ fingerprints off the resulting decisions.

“I’ll check back later.” Jenna knew it was an excuse, but all she could do for now was accept it.

“I’ll let you know as soon as I can,” Merry told her. “For now, it’s time to go back inside and start getting ready for dinner.”

After showering and getting her makeup redone, Jenna returned to her dressing room. Her dinner outfit was hanging from the inner door hook, a little black dress with a plunging neckline and a barely-there miniskirt.

She dropped her bathrobe into the laundry basket, then scrambled to retrieve it as she heard the door start to open.

“Ever hear of knocking?”

“Sorry.” Christine looked more pleased with herself than sorry about anything. “My electric shaver isn’t working; do you have one?”

She was wearing nothing but a narrow thong that didn’t quite cover the edges of her trimmed bush. Apparently she expected—or intended—to flash at least one panty shot during the dinner scene.

“You could...” Jenna decided not to bother suggesting that she change into less-revealing underwear. She’d just make some smart-ass reply. “Never mind.” She looked through the studio-supplied grooming kit. “Here. Keep it; I’m not using it.”

“So I noticed.” Christine said as she turned and walked away.

Jenna slammed the door and threw her robe in the general direction of the basket. Fuming, she got herself dressed for dinner. It took her a few minutes to adjust her outfit so that the lace fringe of the bra didn’t peek out over her neckline, but she finally got it to work. She headed out and, after a couple of false turns, found the bistro.

The greeter led her to a small round table. She thought of asking for a somewhat larger one to put distance between herself and Christine, but saw that the cameras and lighting were already set up. She sat down to wait.

Christine walked in a few minutes later. Jenna took one look at her and rolled her eyes. Were they actually trotting out the musty old cliche about two women showing up in the same dress?

As Christine took her seat, the waiter walked up to the table with their menus. She opened it, and inside was a sticky note titled “Suggestions”. The first one was “Copy-Catfight”. Jenna sighed. Oh, well, she thought, her reactions to the premise would fit right in with the premise, so she was actually off to a good start.

She glanced up as she heard a soft thud on the floor. Christine bent over to pick up the book she’d dropped, and a camera behind her zoomed in on her bare bottom. Obviously that was her reason for carrying the book. Another reason for it occurred to Jenna—a subtle dig implying that she was a boring dinner companion.

Well, she’d see about that.

Christine arrived at the table and sat down. She glanced at her menu, and then back at Jenna. “You ought to try a look you can actually pull off instead of copying mine,” she sneered.

Jenna had a quick comeback. “If I wanted to copy yours, I would have showed up naked.”

“Somebody as uptight as you probably feels naked wearing one of my dresses,” Christine volleyed back. “You might be more at home in Amish country.”

Jenna smirked at her. “Actually, that seems more like your kind of place,” she replied. “It’s home to lots of fat cows and old nags.”

That stung hard enough to leave Christine glaring silently, unable to come up with a response. For a moment, Jenna worried that matters might escalate to a physical catfight. Surely that wasn’t Merry’s intention—they didn’t have stunt doubles, and one serious injury or nasty bruise could stop the production in its tracks—but Christine wasn’t the most level-headed person.

The waiter returned. “Is there a problem, ladies?”

The interruption gave things time to cool down a bit.

“No, no problem,” Christine said. “I’ll have the oysters; I think Jenna here is still trying to figure out the menu.”

“I’ll have the chicken,” Jenna said.

“You know what they say—you are what you eat.”

Jenna ignored the gibe, mostly because she was a bit embarrassed at leaving such an obvious opening. This ad-libbed exchange of insults was already descending to the playground level. She remembered another item from the list of suggestions: “Chat about the story so far”. That gave her an idea.

“I am not a chicken. You’re a busybody. Why is it any of your business if I didn’t want to do the high dive?”

“You need to expand your horizons and try new things.” Christine fiddled with her napkin. “Besides, I wanted a chance to demonstrate my technique.”

“What technique?” Jenna blurted out before she remembered what Christine meant.

“My technique to put a red spot on you that looks exactly like a hickey, remember?”

“Yeah, right! You are so full of it!”

Christine tugged the corners of the napkin between her hands and twirled it into a rope. “Oh, really? I’ll bet I can. You just stand still, and I’ll prove it. Loser pays for dinner.” It was a meaningless bet, of course; the production was paying for their meals. It made sense “in character”, however.

Merry nodded and gave a thumbs-up signal, directing Jenna to go along with it. The decision was made, then. Jenna folded her arms. “All right. I’m sitting still. Prove it!”

Christine got up. Still playing with the twirled-up napkin, she slowly approached Jenna, looking her up and down and sideways as if figuring out exactly how to do the trick. Suddenly she bent down and grasped Jenna’s head while planting her lips on the side of the other woman’s neck.

Jenna tried to pull away, but Christine’s grip was too strong. She tried to scoot the chair backwards, but her captor had one foot hooked around a chair leg, holding it in place. She felt the suction of Christine’s mouth and the light playful nibbling of her teeth.

Finally, Christine stood up and took a step back. She looked over her handiwork. “Do you want to take a look in the bathroom mirror, or just admit that I won?”

“You gave me a hickey!”

“Well, yeah.”

“That doesn’t count! You didn’t use the napkin or the towel or anything!”

“I never said I was going to.” She held the napkin-rope by one end and swung it back and forth. “If you really want to say that one doesn’t count unless I use this, I can show you again. Put your hands behind your back....”

“Forget it!”

Christine made an exaggerated pouty face, then returned to her chair.

The waiter returned with their orders. Each of them also got what looked like a business card that actually had written instructions from the director. Jenna’s card read, “Sit still, don’t say anything, and keep a poker face during dinner”.

She nervously took a bite of her chicken. Surely they weren’t going to resort to low-comedy gags like make the food inedibly overdone or overspiced or something? No, it tasted just fine. Christine’s dish apparently tasted just fine, too; she was slowly licking one of her oysters.

Jenna felt something brush her calf. It returned, more forcefully. She went wide-eyed for a moment before remembering the “poker face” direction. She did her best to follow that. She doubted that she was having much success.

Christine was playing footsie with her under the table. Jenna’s deadpan mask slipped again as she noticed that the foot strokes against her leg were synchronized with the oyster licking, in a bit of blatant Freudian symbolism.

The note was undeniably in Merry’s handwriting. It was a direct order, within the parameters specified in the contract. She was stuck with it.

All she could do was try to distract herself until it was over. She looked down at the table. It was covered with a plain red cloth that draped just low enough to cover the thick lip that circled the underside.

It occurred to her that none of the other tables had a lip. This one was probably rigged with cameras on the underside to record Christine’s stunt. They’d probably intercut the licking and the stroking to emphasize—

Jenna let out a little gasp as Christine’s toes moved up to her mid-thigh. At the same moment, she began nibbling at the oyster.

“Is something wrong, Jenna?” Christine asked unctuously.

She shook her head. The director had told her not to say anything, and under the contract the director was in charge.

“You should probably eat your food before it gets cold.” She followed her own advice, picking up another oyster. “Mine’s warm and juicy, just the way I like it.”

Christine’s foot shifted down to Jenna’s ankle as the game of licking and stroking began anew.

Doing her best to focus her attention on her own dinner, Jenna managed to—mostly—keep her poker face in place. Thankfully, the touch didn’t wander higher than mid-thigh. It was staying well clear of the contractually defined boundary between “sexually suggestive” and “sexually intimate”. As long as that was the case, it was her duty to play her part. That was all there was to it.

She glanced at the door. Intellectually, she knew that all she had to do was walk out that door, gather her things, and leave. It would give her some problems later—she’d become known as “difficult to work with” and might even get sued—but it would put an end to this.

No. It was out of the question. If she walked out on the contract, nobody, including herself, would ever trust her again. She knew that as surely as she knew that the sun rose in the east and set in the west. She could not do it!

Christine’s big toe slid just a bit higher than it had before. It was still nowhere near her crotch, still not “sexually intimate”, but it escalated the boundary violation enough to stir her to action. Even if quitting was out of the question, she could at least scoot back a bit and limit the other woman’s access.

She knew just how her leg muscles were supposed to be moving to accomplish that. She couldn’t actually get them to do it. She’d been told to “sit still” to film this scene. She couldn’t interfere with getting the job done.

She sat still. She tried to keep her face still as well, but every so often a surprising shift in Christine’s touch caused her to jerk or shudder or go wide-eyed. No doubt those moments would be prominently featured in the final production, she thought sourly.

Finally, Christine swallowed the last bit of oyster, and let her foot fall from its position about three inches short of Jenna’s mound. “Mmmm... mmmmm!” she murmured as she licked her lips. “That was yummy! How about yours?”

Merry was holding up her hand and flapping the thumb and forefingers together, gesturing her to talk. “It was all right.” she said levelly, not wanting to sound enthusiastic but feeling that she simply couldn’t ruin the shot with a negative comment.

Christine grinned. “That’s what you get for chickening out. Next time, you should try the oysters.”

“Cut!” Merry yelled. “That was excellent!”

“So, are we done for the day?” Christine asked. “It’s getting late.”

“Yes, that’s all for today. Go back to your cabin and get a good night’s sleep. We have a lot of work to do in the morning.”

“One of us is going to have to sleep on the floor,” Jenna said. “There’s only one bed, and nothing else.”

“Nobody is sleeping on the floor,” Merry declared in a no-nonsense tone. “You both need to show up ready to do the job you signed up for. I’m not going to have either of you showing up in the morning unable to perform because she got cramps and aches from sleeping on those cold hard floors. You two are going to have to share the bed.”

Another bit of cast-iron certainty clanged into place in Jenna’s head. They had to be rested and ready to perform tomorrow. Sleeping on the floor, or somehow forcing Christine to sleep on the floor, or staying awake all night... those simply were not options. She’d have to share the bed with Christine, and hope that her own need for rest put a damper on her lechery.

Merry headed for the bistro exit. She waved to the two actresses. “Good night! Sleep tight!”