The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

This diary belongs to: Greg: 10/23/98

That song is eating at me. It has me pacing at work. I try to concentrate, but it is like nothing is going to happen until I put the music away. Funny thing is, if I were on-stage, there would be a chance I’d forget my own words. The whole point seems to be sheer distraction. This goes beyond the song. It’s something in me, something foreign, but taking over. I sit on my chair, and think about it, but the more I do, the more I see fog.

I’ve been writing lines like those for a month. It isn’t like me. I didn’t used to be foggy, or silent. I liked to speak my mind, and get fun too. This angst sometimes seems more like what happens when a person shuts down and gets into a cave where things wear. Not that I am even like that now. Maybe I’m in someone else’s cave, I’m thinking.

It might have something to do with my recent dabble into hypnotism. I remember playing around with someone on the internet, but don’t recall much after that, which is suspicious. There’s probably nothing related about it; it’s just that lately I’ve been in sort of a trance. I’m just groping for the proper metaphor. I’m not really into the real deal there. In fact, hypnotism used to be just one of those things that I ignored. Mainly it’s just a word that happens to have a z in it when expressed as a verb. Everyone involved with the craft is in some parallel world that I find irrelevant. If I were at a magic show and the magician started hypnotizing people, I’d be the one guy in the audience who’d find it boring. It’s not that I doubt the act is real; it’s just that I don’t care for anything that reminds me of an Amway convention. I’ll have to go somewhere else with this, because hypnotism isn’t it.

Greg finished his entry, and put the diary under his new bed. He set the alarm for ten o’clock, and then fell asleep beside his guitar, without supper. At a minute to ten, he woke up, and stopped the alarm before it could go off.

He’d been naked since he’d gotten home, so after he’d straightened the bed, he walked directly into the narrow hall where he turned to do a shower in the small shower cube. He dried off with his towel, finished his business of grooming, and then went back into the narrow hallway. This time he ended up in the living room. It was no better than six feet wide, and ten long, ending in a counter that separated a six by four kitchen. As he walked, the small trailer rocked from his weight, or more appropriately the trailer’s lack thereof. It was a little stuffy, so he switched on the window fan.

Opening the pantry, Greg found four neat rows of soup. Each was in order, chicken to the left, then vegetable, then celery, then chicken rice. He took one out, and microwaved it as best he could in the spotlessly clean second hand microwave. Since the soup diet he’d lost ten pounds and could count some ribs, a record he kept in the back of his new diary. After he ate, he cleaned his bowl, water cup and spoon, then cleaned the sink, and dried the dishes, putting them away. He had two bowls, two plates, two cups, one coffee cup, and two of every utensil. The counter was cleaned, dried with a towel, and the towel folded before set into the drawer with its sister towel and two wash cloths.

He turned on his black and white television, and rather than mess up the perfect tight lines of the covers on the couch, sat Indian style exactly four feet back from the screen. He only got two channels really well, so he checked his weekly television guide to see what he was supposed to watch. Channel four was blacked out by a big felt pen line for the whole evening, other than from ten-thirty till eleven. It was five minutes before that, so he turned the TV to channel eight, and sat back to watch the last minute, along with four minutes of commercials. At eleven, he turned the channel to four. At eleven twenty, he went back into the kitchen. He put on the black thigh high hose, and small white apron that hang neatly just inside the bottom sink door. He started humming to, “In the World of Silence.” Without thinking about it, his penis started to grow, and poked at the apron enough to show.

The steak was centered in the nearly empty refrigerator. There was one Idaho potato in the right crisper drawer. One bottle of wine chilled in the door. On the left, various vegetables stayed fresh; the rule being that nothing should be more than three days old. These were only two. He put the wine in the freezer, and started marinating the steak. The salad components were gathered, and the potato put on to bake. He took the wine out of the freezer, and set it back in the refrigerator five minutes after the steak started cooking.

There was a nice two foot square table in the corner. He set it in the middle of the living room, and then put the nice little leather chair beside it. The middle of his living room took on the appearance of a French cafe, black and white TV and all. The TV was turned on low brightness and volume, and then changed to eight at exactly the right time. He sat the table with his one embroidered place mat, and his one cloth napkin. There was one silver table setting in the same drawer, so he set all seven pieces out in proper order. A wine glass was put in the freezer. The food smelled wonderful as the porterhouse broiled, but he added some air fresher, and a vase with one freshly purchased rose.

It was three till twelve. He started assembling the food. The salad was cut with tomatoes, onions, croutons and cheese. The steak went on the plate with the potato in foil. A small garnish cup was filled with sour cream, and another with chives. The wine was uncorked, and sat on a towel on the counter. Salt and pepper in silver was laid out. Two selections of dressing were poured into decorative glass dispensers. The table was done, and the wine glass removed from the freezer then put on the table as a frosted touch. It was eight after twelve. Greg cleaned the counter spotless, and refolded the cloth, setting it away.

Greg unlocked the trailer door. He couldn’t get that song out of his mind, the mind that was in the foggy world of silence. He thought about it, and thought that maybe it wasn’t such a bad song to have with him for so long. When the door opened two minutes later, his body was missed by its swing by exactly one foot. He kissed one of her shoes, and then got up from his kneeling position to take her coat. She sat down at the table, and accepted the cloth that Greg unfolded.

“I’m famished. I can’t wait until I’m off that second shift!” Said Gayle, noticing his erect penis poking at his apron, as well as under it when he moved just right. She thought he had a nice tight pair of buns. “The worst part is, there are absolutely no decent restaurants serving dinner at this hour.”

“Yes, Mistress. Would you care for some wine?” Said her hypnotized slave.

“No. I think I’ll want some coffee. I’m still moving into, your ... excuse me, my house, and I’m probably going to be up awhile. Are you rested, slave?” She asked Greg, who’d already collected the wine and glasses, and started a pot of coffee.

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Good. I’ll need you to do some more work. The bedroom walls need some paint. After the new carpet, they just don’t look right in the color you did last Monday. When you get there, you won’t recognize the place,” she said with a smile.

“Yes, Mistress,” said Greg, getting out his one coffee cup.

“Do you understand me, Greg? When you get there, you will not recognize the place. It will be as if you’ve never been there before. Say it: Say, I will not recognize Mistress Gayle’s new place.”

“I will not recognize Mistress Gayle’s new place.”

“That’ s nice Greg. Oh, and did I tell you that I think this new marinate is just right. You be sure to get more of that for next time steak is on the menu. Will you remember that Greg?”

“Yes, Mistress. I’ll get more of that marinate before next time steak is on the menu.”

“That’ s nice Greg. Did you get your two week paycheck from your day job today?”

“Yes, Mistress,” said Greg, handing over an envelope filled with over a thousand, three hundred dollars in cash.

“Put it in my coat pocket, Greg. I’m eating.”

“Yes, Mistress,” said Greg, doing as told.

“Bills?”

“None today, Mistress.”

“That’s nice. Any receipts, slave?”

“Yes, Mistress,” said Greg, reaching into the mail holder attached to the side of the counter. He gave over two grocery receipts and a gas receipt for his new old car’s fill-up.

“I’ll take care of this when we get to my place. I don’t want you walking around without a little money for the things we need. See how I care for you, Greg?” Mistress Gayle said.

“Yes, Mistress.”

“You’re much better off when I manage things for you, aren’t you, Greg?”

“Yes, Mistress. I am much better off when you manage things for me.”

“Thank me, Greg.”

“Thank you, Mistress.”

“You love me, don’t you, slave?” You’ll do whatever I say, won’t you slave?”

“Yes, Mistress,” said the slave.

“You know, after my house is all dolled up, and I go on first shift I won’t be needing you as much. You’ll only be needed once or twice a week for cleaning. How does that make you feel?”

“Terrible, Mistress.” Greg began to shift his weight from side to side in the small space between the kitchen and the living room.

“There’s no need to fret, Greg. You remember your new songs. You’ll be able to go out on the road and play them for everyone. Maybe make us a little extra money. Take yourself there, Greg. Sing in your head. It will be OK.”

“Ohhh! Yes, Mistress,” said Greg, obviously still affected by the less than favorable news that their time together was soon to be reduced.

“I mean it, Greg. Everything is going to work out. Relax. You’ll see. I don’t really think I’ll ever be able to let you go entirely. You’ve done a lot for me too, you know. You almost make up for the lack of late night restaurant service around here, for example. I’m sure I can find a few other interesting things to occupy you with when we’re not together. Now, will you turn that TV up. I don’t want to miss the monologue.”

“Yes, Mistress Gayle,” Greg said, turning up the TV, and going back to making his Mistress’s coffee.

Gayle watched his butt quiver as he poured her a first cup, then went back to her show. In the world of silence, Greg’s mind searched for ways to make the lyrics, more marinate, and I will not recognize Mistress Gayle’s new place, fit the melody.