The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Rita:

Shit. It was a man! I was supposed to be hiding from them. Oh god. Change. My knees started knocking together.

Dimly, I could make out his features: he looked a few years older than me, with a baseball cap over dirty blond hair, and maybe a bit of a repressed bro look about him: his eyes were maybe imperceptibly too close together. He had a sack over his shoulder, and was whistling happily, but stopped when he saw me. He flashed a grin.

“Hey, who are you?” he asked friendly.

I thought about fleeing — maybe there was a back door behind the kitchen, or maybe he would leave if I screamed, but already a strange feeling was coming over me. God, maybe it would actually happen the way the note said it would.

Who am I? he had asked. Who do you want me to be? I felt myself almost ask, but I wrestled it back. I had to think. My heart was fluttering from fear and from a sort of throbbing desire to be different. Clay-like.

“I’m… Rita,” I said, heart pounding like a giant drum. “Who are… who are you?”

“Rhea!” he said, mishearing. “I’ve always loved that name. Annika’s my younger sister — I’m Addison.”

Fuck. I stood there, trying to process everything. I was feeling strange, like I was covered in electricity. Rhea. Was that my name, or not? I was trying to think. What did Annika call me this morning? Rhe… Rit… I massaged my temple confused.

“So what are you, the maid?” he asked good-naturedly, dropping the bag to the floor. “Ah, the perfect woman.” He laughed. “Those jokes aren’t nearly as much fun without Annika here to smack me around for making ’em.”

I felt a little strange, and his words fell oddly on my ears. A maid?

“Because in truth, I’m the maid,” he said. “You’ll find here in this bag an enormous pile of laundry that she left at home, and which I, out of the kindness of my heart, have delivered back to her, clean.” He smiled good-naturedly. My throat was dry. I had to think things through.

“I am the maid,” I said, to my surprise.

“Well, that would explain the broom!” he said, and I looked down at my hands. I was holding a dustpan and broom. I took a step backwards in confusion. This wasn’t normal wasn’t normal wasn’t… was perfectly normal. Hadn’t I just been doing some sweeping right before he had come in?

I looked behind me, and sure enough, there was my dust pile, sitting on the linoleum like the horrible proof. Was I a maid? I thought, completely flat-footed. There was a strange twist of pleasure at the thought. Visceral eroticism. Sweeping. Did he really think that was a perfect woman? Or was he joking? I shifted uncertainly.

He laughed again.

“Maybe you should come by our place sometime, it’s a total mess! Pizza boxes everywhere.”

“Maybe,” I heard myself say demurely. I did need business after all. “If you’d like that.”

“Well,” he said, a little disconcerted, “I’m sure I couldn’t afford it. In fact, not really sure how Annika affords it. Unless she’s finally taken up cam girling like I keep telling her!” He paused. “That’s another joke that’s more fun when Annika’s around to hit me.”

I gave a weak smile.

“Well, I’d be glad to hit you if you like!” I tried to say personably. “You should come inside. I’m almost finished with my rounds anyway.”

“Uh, okay,” he said, stepping in. “Annika’s not… not in?”

“She’s at work,” I said my mind racing. It was whirring of its own accord. I was desperately trying to find ways to comply with the letter Rogers had left. I had to keep him here. I had too. It was like the most extreme hunger I had ever felt. I’ll be whatever he wanted me to be! part of me thought, unbidden, like a bubble. I tried to contain it more productively.

“I usually clean while she’s at work,” I said (truthfully, I realized), “but she’ll be back soon! Why don’t you wait a minute, I’ll get you a glass of… of… juice,” I said lamely.

He looked me over curiously, and his eyes lingered briefly. It made me blush. Had anyone ever looked at me that way? It was my clothes, they were showing my form, and there was skin now, flirty and composed. Of course I looked different. Was I… attractive? And did he want that in a woman?

I felt like shouting questions at him. The bubble rose back larger. I was terrified at the intensity of the feeling. A sort of dread superseded by adrenaline.

“Uh, sure,” he said. “Thanks, Rhea.”

My new name, I thought as I headed into the kitchen, pulse pounding. (“Rhea!” Annika had cried when walked into to her and Rodgers.) I hoped Annika had juice.

“So you’re a maid?” he said from the living room, “Like, not uniform and everything, right? Because that’d be sweet.”

I had this feeling come over me, like a curtain being drawn over my skin. There was a rustle, and I looked down at the tight black dress I was wearing. There was an apron over it. I’m a maid, I thought with satisfaction. This was right. I ran a hand down my side: my uniform was tightly pressed against me, with little wrinkles as it curved over my hips.

“Yes, a maid,” I said. “It’s a side hustle! Otherwise, I’m a student.” I think. All I could find in the refrigerator was gross tomato juice. Damn, Annika was too healthy.

“And are you Chinese?” he said, calling from the living room.

“Yes,” I said again, pushing deeper into the refrigerator. My ass was sticking out. “Do… a, do you like that I’m Chinese?” I asked hesitantly.

I would be whatever he wanted, I thought again, and the feeling was no longer as horrible or strange. Let the bubble fill me.

Socially, though, I thought, asking personal questions is a little terrifying.

“Of course,” he said, somewhat surprised. “I think it’s pretty cool, actually. I’ve always admired people who speak different languages. Do you speak any languages other than Chinese?

“No,” I said, from the kitchen, head starting to throb. “Well, wait. Yes.” I was really confused. Did I, or didn’t I? I… I… “What… which languages do you like?”

“Gosh,” he said, “all sorts. I mean, French, of course,” and my mind feel like it was oozing. “Others too.”

French. Of course. Of course I… I spoke… I was shaking a little, and as I carried a glass of flavored vitamin water I had found, my hand making the liquid shake tremulously. Shoddy form, I thought to myself, as I adjusted my cap nervously. He didn’t seem to think it was odd that I was wearing a uniform.

I was feeling a little faint, and noticing, he took the glass from me and guided me into my seat. His arm had clasped my forearm, and he drew the hand back, like he had been lightly shocked.

I was painfully aroused. I wanted to speak French. He would be so impressed. So I should. I mean, I did speak French, right? But how… how… my mind struggled to make sense of how that could be. Finally, my mind hit on something that seemed likely, and I could feel it slide into reality.

My parents had hired a French au pair. I had forgotten. She was someone who wanted to learn Mandarin… she took me to the park… I started shaking harder. This felt very different than the changes from the device. More watery. More like a costume. Skin-deep. Like I would wake up tomorrow and it would be all a dream.

“Je me sens un peu malade,” I told him faintly. Would that please him, that I spoke french? “I’m feeling a little faint — would you… keep me company for a while. How about you? Do you speak any languages?””

He was not at all amazed by my new French skills. The letter had said something about people not noticing. “Sure, I can hang around a little. And I don’t speak any languages. Well, a little Spanish I suppose. 23% fluent on Duolingo!”He laughed. “But I guess what I really like are the accents. I always wished I had a cool accent. And it’s hard not to like girls with accents, they’re so sexy.” he stopped and looked a little confused at himself, but then he got over it quickly. Thank god for lowered inhibitions. People should just be more goddamn forward.

“I like accent too. Which accent you like?” I said, my English slurred with horrifying chinglish. “Chinese?”

“Um. It’s okay,” he said tactfully, “but I think New Zealand’s pretty cool, so is Scottish… hah, just like Groundskeeper Willie, ach laddie,” he said in a terrible, awkward imitation. He sounded a little nervous. He wasn’t nervous because of me, was he?

“Aye, it’s a fair way from Scotland, but ay ken manage” I said, blushing at the ridiculous Scottish-Chinese accent coming out of my mouth. But hadn’t it always been like that? I… I think it had? My parents had vacationed there… had hired… I was really confused. My head felt like it was looming.

“Well, my favorite accent is probably English. Something posh! Kind of sexy in a girl. Straight up English! You know?”

Ooh. I put a hand on my forehead. Head was hurting more. I was almost too worried to open my mouth. But something was happening in my mind…

“You think so?” I said, in perfect English, as clean as water. “Good god,” I said in surprise. It sounded so strange coming out of my mouth… wait, no… was it really strange-sounding? Or had sounded that ways for years? Even my mind felt cleaner, the English better. But that… made sense… I had spent a few years in a British high school… that’s where I learned French…

“I mean, where did you pick up your English accent?” he asked curiously.

“Well, I went to secondary in England,” I said, hearing the stranger’s’ voice come out. I savored the vowels. There was just a hint of Chinese there.

“In London?” he asked curiously.

“Yes,” I said immediately, a previous memory of me at Manchester dissolving mid-memory. I was becoming his perfect woman I thought with satisfaction. It was a deeper form of satisfaction than I had ever known. Won’t Annika be surprised to see me banging her brother, I thought stupidly. I had to keep him talking. He opened his mouth again:

“Wow. I’ve never… never been overseas, so you have the leg up on me. Did you enjoy it there?”

I thought about it. What was it like? I thought about the British friends I had tried to make. It was a lonely experience, filled with acculturative stress.

“Well,” I said, surprised at how naturally the words came out, the memory and the phrasing, as if I had known this forever. “It was fine. I was a very normal girl in China, whereas at London, people found me very interesting. It was quite a change.”

Interesting was one way to put it. People had found me exotic, and it was intoxicating after being so plainly normal in Shanghai. All the attention… this one boy always trying to walk me home… finally asking me to a party, which I had turned down, blushing. The potential of alcohol had made me nervous.

“To tell you the truth,” he said, “I’ve never really known a Chinese-Chinese person before. One of my friends had a Korean girlfriend, but that’s about it. And she was hot.” Again, he looked surprised. He covered his mouth comically, like some saliva had just shot out or something.

Korean girls were hot? I was filled with this sense of terrifying, deep-seated dread. “More water?” I asked, taking his glass and surreptitiously touching his finger. “Who… who do you think are hotter,” I felt myself asking, and I wrestled with myself to stop this whole thing, stop it now, before it gets out of hand, but I could tell any attempt to resist now was insincere. “Koreans or Chinese?”

“Oh, Koreans, definitely,” Addison said, and then he blushed and shifted uncomfortably. “I mean, Chinese girls are usually so... well, it doesn’t matter. You’re pretty hot.”

He stood up uncomfortably, like he couldn’t believe what he was saying. As for me, I felt the strangest fog I had ever felt, deep in my mind, like I was being rewritten. I leaned back against the sofa and closed my eyes.

Koreans are hotter than Chinese girls, I thought, vaguely devastated. If only I was… if only I was Korean and I opened my eyes, realizing the thought had been in Korean. What? I ran through my mind for Mandarin or Shanghai dialect, but it came fuzzily, from far away. So strange, all those tones, I thought dreamily.

I held up my hand in empty curiosity, and I saw that my skin had changed. The color was different — it was a lighter, softer, and I reached up with my oddly-colored hands and felt the shape of my face. It was a little different too, a little rounder, and my hair fell in slightly different body. My body felt different in hundreds of tiny ways.

“I’m…. Korean,” I said in amazement. I gave a little hiccup.

“Um, yeah,” he said. “Listen, Rhea, maybe I should go,” and my heart pounded in fear. He can’t go! Not yet. I’d spike him some more if he held back, whatever it took. I had to know. I had to be his woman. I was practically sweating with desire, him so close and not speaking candidly enough, not telling me what to be. And in my new body, my new Korean body, knowing that it pleased him, I felt this little sheen of alertness all over my body, all over my skin.

I watched his lips while he was talking. I would be a cow if he wanted, I realized suddenly, my mouth turning dry. I wanted to be a cow if he wanted me to be. A Korean milk-cow. I almost grabbed my tits.

I tried to calm myself. I was losing it, feeling a little hysterical. And if I went bat-shit crazy, maybe he’d leave. I felt stressed just thinking it. Maybe he’d do that especially with less inhibitions.

“Please stay,” I said, standing up shyly and smoothing out my dress. I was momentarily disconcerted by shock as I realized my body was slightly less svelte than it had been previously. It had a little more curve to it, not much more, but enough that I did a double take at my apron. It looked different down there, my apron cupped over my breasts differently. They were a different shape, a tiny bit larger too. My entire body, perceptibly fuller.

I looked up and saw that Addison was watching me, and I tried to recover from my flusteredness. Korean words were jumbling into my mind and I was having trouble making sense of them — other memories were there too — of me without clothes, and there I was, Korean Rhea looking very much like, Chinese Rhea, put put through a Korean filter, like a strange look-alike — “Annika told me I was… I was to keep any guests here until she gets back,” I told him breathlessly. “Besides, I…. I really enjoy talking to you.”

“Really?” he said, with helpless look of someone being flattered by an attractive woman. I took a step closer. My head was trying to readjust. I hadn’t been normal in Shanghai, I had been normal in Seoul. Of course. And here in America, it was the same thing too, exotic, with my English accent, and students feeling comfortable hiring me for housework because they found me foreign and confusing…

I could tell he found me exotic too. He was looking down at me, entranced, maybe found my new eyes and soft face disconcerting. I wanted to check to see if he had an erection, but I didn’t dare.

But my memories were still sludgy. Was I Korean or not? Did I grow up in China, as a Korean girl? I shook my head and bit my lip, frustrated. I wanted to commit, was ready to, but it was like I was in some sort of change limbo. This wasn’t the complete complete change that Rogers’ device seemed capable of. The lack of solidness to these changes made me want to stomp with frustration.

Addison was still standing there, looking at me, and I gently took his hand and guided him back down into the chair. He complied, rubbing his hand. And as I watched you could see him relax, and his discreet stare became more overt. He stared at my waist.

“So, what is it you find attractive about Korean girls?” I said, sitting down, heart fluttering again. More changes.

“Well, they’re so exotic,” he said, thinking about it. “And crazy beautiful, with this youthful-feminine connotation, you know? And the noises they make during… um, porn. Man.”

I felt something funny in the back of my throat. I think I knew what he was talking about all of a sudden.

“But to tell you the truth,” he continued, “I’ve had a thing for them since my friend Morrison had a Korean girlfriend. Man, she was incredible. She was so into him, it was absolutely crazy. Devoted in a way that would be creepy if she wasn’t hot. She was fashionable as fuck, but in this maddeningly unconscious way. You could find a Facebook picture of her wearing this dress that made her look like fucking fuckable royalty. And always wearing these sweaters and pants that looked like they came from a magazine.”

I felt a small pinch around my torso, and I felt my maids’ dress shift. I looked down, and I could see more of my chest. The cheap cut of the neckline had changed, now it looked tailored, flattering, with this beautiful lace across flattered curves. But hadn’t I always been elegant? I thought. Hadn’t I? I started sweating.

I mean, was always so well-dressed at school, it was hard to make friends. Everyone was intimidated by me, but I could never bring myself to dress down, or dress sensually. (Thank god for Annika, who, being at the top of the social and sartorial food chain, naturally made friends with me.)

“But Morrison’s girlfriend, man. One day, he told me that she’d dress however he wanted her too. Out of the blue! That she’d just do it!” He shook his head. “I was like, get out of here, man. But he laughed, and he gave her a call right then. Come on over. But wear something pink, with a bit of skin showing at the bottom. And then she arrived, by bus for fucks sake, and not wearing a nice earth-tone shawl like usual but this pink shirt. And she looked so guilty and nervous, but also happy and excited, you could see it in her eyes, and she walked up and spun around awkwardly for him, with this weird Asian expression, her jeans tight, and compared to how she usually looked, she looked like a… a girl or something.

“And you could tell how aroused she was at being told how to dress. She was practically grinding on him when she came in, and he just winked at me.”

“That… that sounds wonderful...” I said, practically sopping wet at the story. That sounded just like me, didn’t it? It all started when my father had seriously told me one day, when I was starting middle school, how important it was to dress nicely, to care to present an organized, thoughtful appearance. That it would let me be taken seriously and show I was serious. And I complied, and he was nice. But sometimes at night, didn’t I think about how nice it would be to have another man tell you how to dress? Take your constant propriety out of your hands? I shivered in fear at those repressed thoughts.

I remembered in London, wearing a prep-school uniform, and the boy who always followed me home one day out of the blue said how good I’d look good in a sundress. And the next day, before walking home, I changed into a sundress. For him, and it felt so guilty-good walking home, knowing that he was looking at me. He asked me out later, but I turned him down, I was so embarrassed… God, I rocked slightly on the sofa, panting.

Addison continued his story. His hand was resting on his crotch, and his eyes had a far away look to them. “I was so jealous of Morrison. ‘She didn’t even know she wanted someone telling her how to dress until she met me!” he said “And now she can’t get enough of it!’ and I’m sitting there this whole time salivating. She’s so beautiful, with her black hair and moon eyes and this pert, bouncing ass, and her hips teasingly wide, with her fucking pink shirt with a glittery heart on it, the fabric smooth on her, a small rim of midriff showing on the bottom when she moved a certain way...”

I felt something funny in my hips, and for a second I couldn’t breathe, it was like having the breath stretched out of you, and then there was a slight tearing sound as my dress gave a slight rip. Embarrassed, I fingered the small rip, could feel my skin, but then I felt the dress fix itself back up under my fingers. I shifted in my chair, and I could feel the change in my hips, it was like suddenly having a larger rudder or something.

And then, for the first time, I thought about being told what to wear. The thought had never occurred to me. But suddenly I wanted it. “Wear a choker tonight,” I imaged Addison saying, “a white bikini.” I felt like I was on fire. In fact, I think I had always wanted that, it just never occurred to me.

“But as hot as she is,” Addison says, continuing, “she looks a little nervous in the outfit, which is cute and all, but there’s also this element of fakeness to it, of public roleplaying. And every night for a year afterward, I fantasize about being my friend, having that girlfriend, only she’s a little more advanced: not only did she not know what she wanted until she met me, but now, after some initial training, she wants to be shown off in public, she wants it, like the fucking beautiful piece of ass she is.’

“And I imagine explaining my girlfriend to my friend, him shocked with jealousy, her standing right there, and as I say this she leans into me appreciatively, suggestively, and I grab her ass and she squeals with this fucking adorable Asian squeak, her eyes going wide…” he shook his head. “God, I’m sorry. I’m sure you don’t want to hear this.”

“N-n-no, I don’t mind…” I say. I was shaking a little. I wanted to be a beautiful piece of ass. A beautiful piece of Korean ass. I gave a little moan, like an arching, airy sigh, but he didn’t seem to notice. Just the thought of people telling me how to dress. Addison. Professor Stilgoe. Anastasia. How erotic. To wake up and have someone tell you, and then be shown off.

I felt something else too, this sense of expansion below, a heavy feeling like the sense of an inflatable bed filling with air, and with every second it felt like there was more cushion on my rear, more padding. I gave another little moan, this time of a slight pain, an erotic pain, like someone had stuck a bike pump in my rump.

I couldn’t help it, I had to look. I maneuvered to all fours on the sofa, twisting to try to look. I was having trouble breathing while it was going on, but I managed to get a look. It was a different sight: my dress flared now at the hips, with conspicuous, obvious swell. I wasn’t anything like the pole I had been as a Chinese girl. My hips were now perfectly wider than my shoulders, almost teasingly so, and as I tried to look down at my ass, I could see it stuck out oddly, rounded. Ooh. I sat back down and felt it smush into the seat. I felt a level of excitement I had never felt before. Was I a piece of ass? I brushed back my hair, remembering back in Seoul, my curves developing and my rear a rare point of pride for me, a favorable point of comparison for an otherwise plain girl.

Addison was watching curiously, and now more openly stroking himself through his jeans.

“I have a girlfriend you know, Carrie. She’s tremendously sweet, and a face like an angel. And she has this huge rack, but an ass that’s as flat as a board. Flat as a piece of cardboard,” he said with heavy sorrow. “And I’m an ass guy, you know?” (I gave a little squeak, hyp!, as my derriere got fuller.) “And I mean, really, in an extreme way. Like, to the point where I have this incredible guilt when I with her, because she’s always so proud, showing off her breasts, a part of her body she’s not self-conscious about, and I know she thinks I love them, because I pretended to into them in the beginning. And now I’m always disappointed, and always faking that I like them.” (My rear continued to grow. I didn’t have to look, I remember looking enough. How couldn’t one look, like, all the time? It was molded and jiggled in a manner that absolutely set me off. It wasn’t huge, but had the sort of padded expansion that couldn’t not be looked. For an Asian girl, I was way off the bell curve. My classmates were always making crude jokes about my father.)

“And I just feel so guilty!” Addison said, playing with his hair. “No one understands. I mean, boobs are pretty, of course, in the same way calves are pretty, but when I was young it took me forever to figure out that people found breasts attractive, like, in ways that asses are fascinatingly, maddeningly, attractive.”

(Boys couldn’t keep their hands off my ass. And… well, I didn’t always stop them. I remember walking home with a boy in London, one day letting him squeeze me in an alley, and it was so exciting. I gave him a long, wide-eyed look, before turning around, stretching down and hitching my uniform skirt up to show my white panties. Why not, senior year? And just last month, I had smushed my cheeks against a boy’s face, and he came, right then and there, making a funny noise like the universe was fondling his balls.)

“And whenever Carrie walks into the room, everyone’s always nudging me with a wink, because she’s a total package, cute and chesty and likes to snowboard, but to me her tits are about as exciting as her feet, and I don’t know what to do.” He suddenly looked like he was near tears. “You can’t break up with your best friend because her ass is flat, can you? But the secret is killing me.”

He gave a deep sigh.

“I’ve never told anyone this before. But sometimes I imagine cheating on her. It’s like a fantasy I have, a fetish, cheating on her with my dream woman, someone who exists for me like a perfect mistress, who dreams of being my perfect companion. In fact,” he said, his face contorting, “Carrie’s very vanilla. Sometimes I have these…” he stopped talking and turned beet red. “Gosh. Me, always talking about myself.”

“No, please continue,” I said, unable to stop the small break of begging in my voice. I skid over and reached over to his seat and touched him again, and he could see down my line to how my dress curved round my ass and down to my thigh, and as I touched him he straight up unzipped his pants and gave my ass a tweak with this funny, breathy, strangled noise. His fantasies must be pretty well embedded if he was so hesitant to share them. I held my breath, delirious with anticipation.

“Well, I fantasize about girls who are exhibitionists. Like, the thought of Carrie just… exposing herself, to my brother, to strangers, Annika, I… god.” His dick was out and very hard. I watched it curiously. “And more than that, my perfect woman, she’d be into… into transformation. Like, mind and body. I mean, nothing’d set her off more than just thinking about transforming people, being transformed. God, I… I… I mean, sometimes I want to… I want to turn girls into more beautiful versions of themselves, or different people entirely. And other times I want to turn them into drinking fountains.” He turned beet red.

Well, you’ve hit the fucking jackpot, I wanted to tell him, and I had to restrain myself from grinding on the sofa, or jumping him right there. God, hadn’t that always been my fantasy too? I remember walking home from school in London, dreaming that I could change into one of the other girls so I could be free. And hadn’t Rogers been magnitudes more erotic than anything I had ever experienced before? Wasn’t this the most intense, vivid experience of my life? My brain was boiling.

“Your secrets are safe with me,” I managed to grit out. “Any other complaints about Carrie?” I was clenching hard, trying to, trying to…

“Um, more oral sex?” he said turning even more red. He stood up, and I collapsed, twitching on the sofa. “I’m so embarrassed right now,” he said honestly, “I’ve never been so embarrassed. I’m going to leave now. Tell Annika I said hi and that I took a picture of her once and feel bad about it.” He looked so ashamed of himself. “And it was nice meeting you, Rhea.”

If I hadn’t been incapacitated from an unexpected climax, I maybe could have stopped him. But he ran out the door, free.

I sat there recovering for a second or two, before walking right into Annika’s room. I pulled out her dildo and put it right into my mouth, and it made my ass twitch, just imagining taking it, kneeling, his, and I arched onto Annika’s bed, pressing my tits onto the mattress, putting my new ass in the air, and I could feel it, it was heavy and strange, the new size of it, and I ran a hand down my new Korean tits and down the velvet of my dress until I fingered my pussy. I was imagining Addison’s dick was in my mouth, that he was cheating on his girlfriend with me, she was wondering where he was, and I was helping him, and I wanted that so badly it hurt. I’d do anything for him, I was his maid, my Korean body was his to dress and be shown off, a silky Korean ass for him to fondle and smack... I wanted to people to think I was exotic, flash people, transform people and be transformed… I was moaning piteously, making strange noises, sometimes with English vowels, and others with short, high-pitched breathy sighs punctuated with Korean exclamations, and my fingers started moving faster, and I pushed my mouth further onto the shaft, and I imagined change, changing Annika, Anastasia, Addison, myself… conforming, changing and I orgasmed and waves crashed over me like tsunamis and I blacked out.

I woke up later feeling sore and strange. I could hear sounds in the kitchen. Annika was home? Anastasia? But when I stood up, I could tell something was wrong. I looked into the mirror and felt a terrible sadness. Whatever had happened to me. It had worn off. It was just me: Rita — short, Chinese, with awkward English.

It hadn’t worked. It hadn’t lasted. I turned to look at my ass in disappointment. It was so small. I felt like I was moving from a mansion into a trailer park. The perfect life, gone. I wanted to cry.

I looked at my rear again. It was a little bigger. Maybe a fair amount. Maybe some things lasted. But the important things... the paper must not have the same staying power of the device.

Desperately, I tried to recall the glorious eroticism of everything, of how alluring it was to slide the dildo into my mouth, how delicious it had felt to imagine someone telling me to get dressed, put on some leggings, but no matter how I thought it, it all felt empty and strange, like someone else’s fantasy, just playing emptily along.

I had to be different. I would be different. My mind was set. Next time Rogers came with the device, I had to find a way to make this permanent, make this real. I would find a way.