The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Glowing Feelings”

by Cristina Prince

PART TWO: Nick Rises

Nick Reverenti was shaken awake at first by the sound of stifled coughing, and then more sharply by the powerful aroma, unencumbered by light perfume, of marijuana. His marijuana. That he paid for, with hard-earned aplomb. Who had the audacity to do such a—his eyes shot open. It was just Shayla, his assistant. He reasoned it acceptable, even advantageous, to have such a cool girl smoking his weed. Especially considering she deflected the hailstorm of indie rock magazines that wanted to poke through his shroud of secrecy and find out exactly what made him tick.

“That’s good shit, right?” he asked his right-hand lady. After she sucked down another bong rip and let it out as elegantly as white lace sits on a dinner table, she replied with a casual nod. Truth was, it was, some of the best, but she wasn’t about to preoccupy herself with the quality of Nick Reverenti’s drugs. She was after his hugs and kisses and loaded glances. The way things were going after almost three years of being her boss’s eyes and ears, that wasn’t about to happen. Not even by forcing a wake-and-bake.

In fact, he hired her precisely because he had no physical interest in her. He rather fancied the way women could be so commanding on the battlefields of the music industry, yet remain so compliant to the sometimes overabundant egos of the artists they were paid to represent. Trouble was, the two assistants he employed before Shayla were maybe too compliant. Sucking dick while he’d be dealing with deadline-annoyed A&R men on the phone wasn’t exactly in the job description, but it morphed into a veritable duty when the girls he hired refused to answer his phone until he fed them with his cock. And sure, they were expert, hardworking cocksuckers, but that wasn’t what he hired them for.

The last one, Coco, pouted so much when she got fired, she looked like she could have cried at any second. “Look, I’ll do anything, Nicky,” she weakly pleaded as if he didn’t already know, reaching for his zipper. At that moment, Nick realized that the one thing she couldn’t possibly do was be a lesbian, and as he imagined this supercurvy little nymphet on another, he chuckled mutely. He came in his loyal lady’s mouth as he also came to a realization: he would hire an ugly dyke!

To be fair, Shayla was light years from ugly, but was a brunette and was taller, smarter, skinnier and older than her boss. At 24, she handled the paperwork and P.R. for one of America’s premier saxophonists. At 29, she was advertising exec for one of the biggest punk rock magazines in the country. And here she was at 32, working under the most popular and most mysterious songwriter around. She wasn’t going to let anything as puerile sexual intrigue get in the way of that, but then again, that wasn’t even an option. She had been happily married to a woman named Carmen for six years. And if that hadn’t been the case, having a constant hankering for physically smaller girls equipped with a more implicitly bodily submission, she was defiant in that she had no curves! With no softness for his nose to get lost in, she was perfect for the job. But why was she starting to hang around so much?

“I told you not to come into my bedroom before I wake up,” he reprimanded. “Next time knock on my door when you wanna smoke my pot.” It wasn’t until she brushed stray hair out of her face that he really looked her over, still half-asleep, ruminating. They had celebrated his third consecutive number one single by breaking into a fresh eighth the night before, a last-minute purchase made by Shayla. She left out the part about how she scoured the city for hours before reaching a reliable connect. She also failed to mention how weird the dealer was, how he (she thought) was joking about its “magically addictive” qualities. Or maybe she did, but the last thing he remembered was taking off her shoes after she passed out on his living room couch.

So why was she in her underwear on the edge of his bed? And why was his bedroom filled with her scent? In fact, when did she start using perfume? It was not matter, though. All questions made their way to the lilting scent of weed, and drifted away with it. He took a mean bong rip and let it out calmly, reminded of something.

“You know, I had the craziest dream about you and Carmen,” he said, a sleepy flirt rushing forth from his lips. Shayla took a surprised turn and went to face him from her corner of the bed, brushing brown bangs from her forehead, desirous of a secrecy of will. She did not want her boss to uncover her growing feelings for him. It was so dumb of her anyway, she wasn’t even his type! And she was happily married to the woman of her dreams.

But she was bored more often than entertained lately, and Nick Reverenti embodied all the American fun she’d been craving. She hesitated at first, not wanting to give herself away at all, but eventually submitted to sidling next to him, resting her head on his rock star shoulder. She had begun a dangerous game, and looked up at Nick, coquettishly batting her eyelashes and crossing a limber leg inquisitively. What dream could he have had about her and her wife?

“Say word?” she asked, covering her mouth with a ladylike hand as if she had just belched. Why was she compelled to ask in the manner of a Puerto Rican high schooler? For a quiet woman raised the only girl in a customarily huge Italian family, it was a way of saying, “Oh really?” that was at once dangerous and sexy. She immediately realized an uncharacteristic slip-up and was prepared to excuse herself by claiming it was a joke, but she didn’t have to. He just went right on explaining to her the details of his dream. He was cute when he was forward like that.

“You and Carmen were sisters, first of all. Sisters who really adored my music and were totally on my jock. You guys were practically fighting over me!” He struggled to remember more minutiae as the floaty flighty story but found the little bits escaping him just as fast as he could pop a boner over his foggy memory. “It was all pretty hot!” He hid a giggle underneath a yawn as he noticed a glance of appreciative bewilderment from Shayla that he misconstrued as dubious annoyance. He would have changed the subject had his lips not been stuck to the chamber for another hit. He guessed he was getting higher than he thought: When did his assistant start wearing hoop earrings? And was that eyeliner? As she hopped off his bed and to the corner of his room, bending down to pick up a Three 6 Mafia record, he saw something in her pink-pantied butt that he never noticed before: a thing of sexual arousal.

Maybe he just hadn’t ever seen her ass without the usual shield of pants, or more rarely, skirts. Or maybe he was just severely stoned. Her behind was a quaint little modest thing on her willowy frame, but its slight curves drew his eyes in all the same when she bent over again, this time even further and at an odder angle. Shayla’s little caboose enticed Nick to touch, even though he knew the dangers and ridiculousness of the idea. Besides, she was just teasing him by sliding down a second time. Only one of her four new gold bangles fell down from her wrist, it wasn’t like she needed to bend over right away and fetch it. The way she lingered with it and almost sashayed, it was too much! Well, maybe. He could get used to being this comfortable with his help. He just didn’t want her to know his literally growing satisfaction, and certainly wished the same for her sister.. er.. wife!

He never thought of her as being the hip-hop superfan, but here she was, ghetto dancing with the invisible booty God forgot to give her, puffing on a fat blunt, lit up with mango flavored paper, burning down his crumbling shanty of a reality. Nick wasn’t sure why or how it happened that the two stoners shared the roach while playing footsy under the covers, but he was well, well beyond the point of trying to rack his brain with another stupid question when any and all answers might be found in her head of caramel hair. If he just kept inhaling and bathing in it, he wouldn’t need to think. It took all of his blazed strength not to smooch her neck. He wondered if his assistant could feel his dick plumping fast on her thigh.

She could, and she was as eager as she was worried. While she couldn’t deny the hot rushing sensation of intrigue and for sure could not hope to control it, the stereo said, “Smoke all night / sleep all day / that to me’s the American Way,” and she couldn’t ignore the truth, the beat popping and thumping with her excited heart, the smooth tones of Tennessee rap pumping into her skin. “Roll that shit / light that shit / hit that shit / hold that shit / blow that shit out slow.” She followed those orders like a good bitch would, and thinking, What would video girls do?, she grabbed her man and held him close, softly and gingerly gripping his cock in the same breath.

Was this her boss, really? Hadn’t he grown to ber her friend over the years? Well, now he was a friend with benefits then, wasn’t he? Fuck that, thought Shayla, that ain’t how bitches think, and she moved her hands lightly along his shaft, giving her first handjob to a guy, nice and gentle with the ease and precision of a seasoned slut. I bet he lovin’ this, she thought, and he was, but he was also worried about destroying a happy marriage.

Shayla wasn’t, and the craziest part was that she wasn’t ignoring her responsibilities, she just forgot about them completely. Maybe it was because she no longer had any. Part of the reason the weed was magically addictive was its most particular attribute: it literally made dreams come true. But she didn’t hear that in her mad rush to appease her pot-fiend employer. She just took the eighth and ran, and now it was almost all gone at eleven the next morning.

She was the woman thug’s answer to that Three 6 Mafia song, living out every hidden fantasy she’d buried since adolescence. That must have been exhausting, because now she was falling asleep a minute into her first handjob.

* * *

When Shayla woke up, it was six in the evening and the sun was setting. The lights were all off and Nick was nowhere to be found. She missed him and she wanted him bad. Stretching her once-familiar limbs to reach the bong on the nightstand proved fruitless even though she did it earlier without much effort. It was when she stood up to grab one of the three blunts left in her purse that her panties fell off. Picking up her underwear from her ankles and noticing they were way too loose for her to possibly put back on without shimmying directly off, she knew something wsa up. If she had even the slightest measuring tool, she would have learned she receded from 5′10″ to 5′2″ in a matter of hours. But she didn’t, and instead of freaking out about it, wisely chose to light the blunt in her hand and just relax. Removing the undies from her ankles and tossing them across the room with her feet, the thrill of her nude latté-skinned body under Nick Reverenti’s covers was enough to keep her from second-guessing as to why she was braless.

The wonder and mental gauze the weed imparted on her distracted her from the changes taking place all over her body underneath the blanket. For starters, her breasts, all but nonexistent mere hours prior, had swollen a bit to fill a modest B cup. Too bad for Shayla, she wasn’t thinking about boobs. Her mind was much more preoccupied with a druggy vision of male musculature still largely unknown to her gazes and caresses. She had boys on the brain without room for much else, except maybe men. Lots and lots of black men, legions of lovers to throw her around in some bad bed heaven. Dark men with bright smiles, six-pack abs, some sweet and tough playground for frisky fingers to frolic in.

It wasn’t enough for these visions to be at the ready in her own imagination, Shayla wanted them real, she wanted them now and she wanted them hard. Her heart began to race in place of providing her a deeper calm. Her heart exploded and the pieces all landed somewhere on the floor near her discarded panties. Shayla’s body simply had no use for the understated warmth of a heart any longer. The more burgeoning heat of burning, rushing loins crushing a soulful humanity in favor of a meatier carnality flooded her.

She wasn’t interested in getting to know any new people, she just wanted to meat them: to meat meat in a beefcake-perfumed packing plant and pork powerfully. Visions of breasts and thighs, dark meat, hot dogs, sausages all sizzling and ready to burst. Her desire was a griddle that she could faintly smell. Or maybe that was just her hunger for stuff at the pizzeria next door, wafting through the open window.

Four hits into the blunt but not nearly halfway done with it, she was sure of one thing at least: she was not prepared to go anywhere to slake her appetite. Even if she had clothes that fit her, she knew she just wanted to ease her way into getting even higher, hornier and hungrier. She had enough of her boyfriend Nick’s money and her own free time that she was able to lazily and perfectly accomplish all three without having to lift a finger. She let a prettily manicured one press down on the menu button, though, on her Sidekick that she’d been holding inattentively for the past couple minutes. A cell phone in her left hand and some good dro in the other—Shayla was a busy girl!

It took her almost three quarters of a minute to decide whether or not to phone Paolo’s Pizza for a delivery or take a fifth toke. She chose the latter and lolled with the smoke, looking at the el betwixt her fingers, her pretty pretty fingers—It ain’t easy being this fine, Shayla reasoned, and her fingernails were only a bit part of that proof: ludicrously long and painted with the tiny but ornate wisps of some pacific place. She struggled to think of a time when they weren’t that long, sure that there was some time they didn’t look so perfect and feminine. She failed, also forgetting any occasion of visiting a nail salon. Maybe she applied these things earlier that morning in a happy haze, straight out of the package.

One deft keystroke, the press of a tiny button so carefree and easy in spite of her sexy clunky nails, was all it took to call for pizza and forget about foretting about a forgetful foggy noggin. She was overthinking this, she posited, and put the pot out after one more little puff. She didn’t need her brain to order food! She’d get that hot meat the easy way: her voice, that never failed her before. Singing the hooks to more than half a dozen club hits for rappers on Def Jam and Rocafella was only one way to get that money. Cooing into her boyfriend Nick’s ear, and telling him she wouldn’t do another red carpet appearance with him until he gave her his debit card and the keys to his new stretch Hummer, was only one other. Her voice was a stronger and more covert weapon than her brain anyday. Sexy and sinewy, it was a sinner for selling.

“Paolo’s pizza,” Paolo answered.

“Hey Paolo, it’s Shayla,” she sing-songed like the old paisan was a closer, more comfortable lover than her own. He knew who it was immediately, Shayla first being famous for being famous and then famous for flirting and finally, for being a great customer. So he yelped with delight.

“Shayla! Shayla Shayla Shayla! What can I do for you, pretty girl?”

She considered the question for a moment because she had something up her sleeve. “I’ll have two extra large sausage pizzas, oh and an extra thick chocolate milkshake,” she ordered, drawing out every syllable like divining silk from a worm or syrup from a maple tree.

“Okay baby, is your wife coming to pick it up?”

Shayla half-choked. “M-my wife?”

“Yeh, what’s her name—Carmen!”

“Oh Paolo,” Shayla chuckled like some Hispanic teenage Marilyn Monroe, “Carmen’s my sister. And besides, I’m ordering in tonight.”

“But you live next door! Come by, Paolo wants to see you!”

“I’m sleepy, papi. You should know better than to try and boss this lady around,” she cajoled, talking to the chef like he was a puppy. “And send Darnell, I forgot to tip him last time.” She hung up the phone before he could respond and now that Shayla dropped her phone from the sultry clutches of her fuckable fingers, they were free to explore her creamy contours as she dozed off.

* * *

The hard knocking at the door reminded Shayla of the low bassy beat pulsing behind Lupe Fiasco’s hot rhymes. Where was he? She could have sworn he was just below her a second ago, a nice sex rap filling her ears and heart and loins. But her brain was filled with another crucial ingredient that slowed down her realization that it had all been just a dream: that sticky icky icky. And one more bang bang bang drove home her horniness and caused her to cry out to nobody in particular, “The pizza!”

Shayla bounced upright and bolted out of bed, an arm clutched over her chest, trying in vain to cup and contain her juicy fresh canteloupes. For only a flicker of a flash, she felt amazed at how much she had to hold, like she had just simply woke up with these massive melons. A trilling thrill sang through her whole as she let one go and bounce with her quick steps. God don’t just drop these from the sky, Shayla thought in rhyme (it was too difficult to think in any other way lately), I was born to please my guy.

But this girl was by no means exclusive, and “my guy” really didn’t gel with any monogamous concept of “my girl” either. In fact, “my guy” meant any old thug with a big fat dick and an even fatter wallet. The more she was fed with these things, the more possession of herself she pretended to play around with and lose. She wondered as she slipped on a ludicrously cut nightie how much she’d have to play to get Darnell where she needed him. A final thump thump thump bang bang and a curt primping of her highlighted locks was all it took to make Shayla want to jump jump jump and fuck fuck fuck whoever was behind that door.

Except it wasn’t the pizza boy, it was her sister Carmen. But she was so amped and excited that even that didn’t matter, and she hopped up on her sibling as if it was a soldier’s welcome, gyrating her broad eye-catching hips and showering her barely offended sis with sloppy smooches. It was only when Shayla went in for the kill, nearly toppling over when she slipped a hand underneath the clasp of Carmen’s bra (and another past the waistband of her thong), gripping hard, that Carmen asked, more amused than angry, “Is you crazy, girl? Save some of that for Darnell!”

Simply hearing that name sent gushing streams of desire through Shayla’s clenching pussy. Overcome with it, she pawed mercilessly at her sister’s breasts, eliciting a gaggle of giggles from the guts of the two girls. Their dry humping stood to get soaked in sweat if not for the ding dong of the doorbell. “How do I look?” Shayla asked, but it wasn’t as if she was planning on paying any attention to Carmen’s answer. She knew she was hot shit; there was no doubt in her mind that she was supremely fuckable. In her mind, little stood in the way between her and her sausage pizza.

“Hey baby,” she purred as she flung open the door, pursing her plump lips and tittering over to Darnell’s chest, running her freshly manicured fingers along it, while her sister was already busy burying her face in the pizza delivery man’s big black package that she unzipped before he even got a chance to put the food down. “Tag team back again,” he muttered, deafened in the girls’ ears by their bloody rushing need. Shayla stuck a straw in the chocolate shake, and, taking it from Darnell’s hands, started slurping. She didn’t worry about paying. The sisters never had to worry about paying when Darnell delivered. They got the food, they got the cock, and they got the 24-hour fiesta. It was fun being a girl!

This was the way it always was. Back when the twin girls were not yet of age, they would fully exploit their god-given soft rounded shapes to get older dudes to get them cases of beer or handles of hard alcohol. The good thing was that Shayla and Carmen didn’t have to be attracted to those guys. The saying, “A cock’s a cock” couldn’t ring any truer than the moments when their eyes were clouded with the sight of various ones or when their mouths were flooded with the taste. After enough casual encounters as currency, it was as if these members had no bodies, no brains, no faces.

At the end of each work day, it was the girls and the goal. Surely, mothers across America would scoff at their behavior, but to the sisters it was all a matter of working hard with what they were doled out. If they had to suck some dick, it wasn’t nearly as huge as the unseen one that the men they sucked were choking on. The men were suffocating on a giant, tasteless, invisible wang of sadness and searching, a trap door to nothing but pain. At the least, the girls could feast on golden chocolate keys to pampered principality. Their dicks were much more manageable and individually wrapped, prettier to hold and more ergonomical to imagine looking at. To Shayla and Carmen, they were warm and fun joysticks. The more a girl grifted game from them, the more leisurely pleasing them became. And very, very addictive!

Darnell summoned what was left of his reserve to sarcastically plead, “Your food’s gonna get cold,” but the girls weren’t exactly heeding reality. Their nimble, manicured hands rode the pearly dreamboat to satisfaction from his tight chocolate abs and the bursting joystick of hot games, ready for anything as long as it was feminine.

The Mendoza sisters were willing and able women, every ounce of them burning with a most total sexuality. They were born bitches after all, bred for pleasure. To take it all, to take it hard, the volunteer work of submission. Carmen substituted the sausage in her mouth for an edible one. Still soaking from the girl’s sudsy slobber, Darnell’s monster dick was already slippery and well lubed for some ass pounding.

Clutching the headboard, Shayla let go of her body. It felt like this big man was occupying her entire body, her soul, her very waking history. Somewhere far away a phone was ringing. Neither of the Mendozas had a straight ring, they paid for their R&B ringtones. Nevertheless, it was getting louder and more abrasive, just as Darnell was pounding ever harder. Her ass felt like it was being tightened around a drumhead. Bang bang bang bang

“Make it stop!” Shayla pleaded. Darnell immediately withdrew his bigger-than-brontosaurus rod and bent down to kiss her juicy behind, licking up and down the crack like it was an ice cream sandwich. The ringing was so loud it made her eyes water. The delivery man smooched the small of her back, massaging her hips with his huge hands. “Have a piece of pizza, mami,” said the stallion as he playfully slapped her ass.

“What?” Shayla asked, in a fog of sex and confusion.

“Touch it. It ain’t gonna bitecha.” Shayla glanced over at the open box through teary eyes, trying to ignore the ringing. She looked at a drippy, saucy piece of pizza and ran her fingers along a piece of sausage, then dove them straight into the slice. It felt like heaven. She reached with her clean hand for Darnell’s crotch. She kept grasping and fumbling in the encroaching sunlight.

* * *

The phone kept vibrating and ringing on the nightstand. Shayla opened her eyes and looked for Darnell some more. The sunlight bore down on her and she rolled to the side, curiously pulling half a hand out of a very wet slit. She answered the phone in a druggy wet cement haze.

“Hey, Darnell baby, where’d you go to?” She asked with a smirk. “I ain’t through witchoo, don’t you love my pussy, baby?”

There were the sounds of a cash register and chatting people on the other end. A big pause. “Sh.. Shayla? Is that you?”

It took everything for Shayla to sit up, but she did, trying desperately to rub the sleep out of her eyes. “You know who this is, papi. Why’d you leave me?” She absentmindedly drew her sticky fingers back down to her panties.

“Shayla,” the tone of the man on the other line was beginning to seem more shrill, more.. white. “I’m not sure what you’re trying to pull here, but you’re over an hour late. It’s twenty after four!” Twenty after.. Uh! 4:20! Of course. Shayla reached an arm over to her nightstand, feeling for a bowl or a joint before realizing neither of the sort were there.

“Fuck, I gotta re-up again? You smoked all my weed!” Shayla shut her eyes and rubbed her thighs together.

“You’re high, is that it? Listen, I’ll bargain with you. All the ice cream is melting. Travis called out on me and I’m here all alone. I can’t work a coffeeshop all by my fucking self.”

Coffee—coffeeshop! What was she thinking? She sat bolt upright and looked at her alarm clock! How did she manage to sleep until late afternoon? Why was she thinking about black dick? She had to open her mouth wide and work her jaw to quell the ghetto tinge in her voice. Suddenly Shayla felt gross, like she was shedding skin. What day was it?

“Listen, I’m sorry,” she begged, “I had a... weird couple of days. This isn’t like me, I’ll be down in a half hour, Nick.” Some foggy feeling grew in her, sent a spray of pleasure through her body. Nick. Why was she getting off on hearing herself say her boss’s name?

“I know you work hard,” he said. “Just get your ass down here.” Her ass. Her ass was throbbing. Maybe all she had to do was work it hard! She imagined herself bending over the dishwasher, shimmying to retrieve a stray fork.

“I’m coming,” she said, and hung up, working herself into a frenzy, crying out to loose the soppy syrup clouding her brain. The relief was immense. Bounding to the shower, she realized her big breasts disappeared. How could that happen overnight?

It was then that she realized just how deeply she had to have been sleeping. I’m flat old Shayla, she confided to herself. Still, she felt what seemed like phantom tits and longed for a few moments for them to be real. She realized it was going to take more than a double espresso to shake her dreams. As she turned the faucet on and felt the cold water splash onto her ankles, she grew an instant hunger. Maybe Paolo’s was open.