The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Ugh! Senate Records has outdone themselves this time. The boy bands were cute—not like that, Christy, put down the penlight. But this latest... I don’t even know if it’s a trend of a copy or what... is ridiculous. ‘Leslie Swords, the new tean dream’—ugh, I think I’m going to be sick. I think I wear more in the shower than she does on her album cover,” Sasha complained several months later as she waved the promo CD around Christy’s office.

Christy plucked the CD out of Sasha’s hand and took it back to her desk for further study. “Full subliminal discs? Sure, why raise talent when you can raise bimbos? Easier, and you don’t have to wear earplugs when fucking them,” she grumbled, her face serious as she read the track list. “Lord have mercy, I don’t make this many dirty jokes between sets, let alone on an album. ‘Baby Loves Bananas’? Are they serious? If folks can’t see past the blonde hair and the D-cups, there’s no hope left for society.

“Amen to that,” Sasha said, and Melinda agreed with a nod. This was the fourth such meeting in as many months, each one about something that was eating away at Christy’s profile in the outside world and at her sanity in her insulated shell. Ostensibly, the purpose was to crank out interviews to get ready for the new album to launch, but they served as much as venting sessions for Christy’s frustration with the business. The publicist that had replaced Sasha and the webmaster that had replaced both Melinda and Bree were both good, but Sasha and Melinda wished they didn’t have to work with other people. As it was, they were stuck with intake and dealing with Christy’s many and volatile moods. While Christy’s control meant that they had to put up with her, ownership gave way to their genuine concern for her as she turned her back on them to look at the latest competitor, staring deep into the cover as if she could reach whoever the girl had been before she became a cheesecake picture on an album cover of trashy bimbo pop.

They knew what that meant. “Top shelf. Watch me go Eddie the Eagle on this,” Sasha whispered.

“Fake left then hard right,” Melinda replied just as quietly.

They both watched, and as they had predicted, Christy whirled around and fired the CD case as hard as she could towards the awards cabinet. Sasha didn’t even crack a smile as she leaped up and made a reaching save before the CD could hit.

Christy threw up her hands in disgust at what appeared to be the entire universe. “I hired you two as assistants, not goalies! But I guess making those kinds of saves is part of the job description now. Goddamnit, Sasha, look at that face. Look at that face, Melinda, and tell me whether you’d let her into an R-rated movie. No, you wouldn’t, would you? Damnit, what’s wrong with these people? I’m twenty-five years old and I feel like a fifty-year-old mother of eight who’s been through a war. Does this one even have any natural talent? No, if she did she wouldn’t have to be as overt. She is—was—just an innocent girl with big dreams and bigger tits, at least now—who knows what they were when she started. At least Senate left a clue around her neck. What has it come to? What has it—bright side, Christy, bright side! We’ve got enough to churn out an album a year for the next five years to keep them off my back.”

“You’ll always have a career somewhere, and the closest friends you’ll find,” Melinda pointed out.

“Tour in two months,” Sasha reminded her, and that perked Christy up like a little kid who’d been told she could go play after she finished her homework. Getting Christy to step away from the darkness that threatened to overwhelm her daily life had become part of Sasha’s daily chores as her assistant.

The part that frightened Sasha the most was that she couldn’t blame Christy for giving in to despair at what was going on in the business. Every day, things were getting worse, with some new controller getting a production job and trying to lure in Christy. The suburbs and the city of Los Angeles itself were still more or less fine—at least no more dangerous than any other big city—but Hollywood was a whirling cesspool of scum, danger, and villainy. The victims were getting younger and younger, the controllers meaner and meaner. Nothing was out of the question anymore; straight hypnosis, devices, chambers, drugs, subliminals, and other things Sasha had only heard whispers about were in play and en vogue. There had been a time when Hank just had to worry about a few paparazzi; now he had to worry about every move Christy made being broadcast to the world so that someone could set up an ambush for her.

It had gotten so bad that Christy barely even went out anymore, and if she did, she did it in such heavy disguise that people would think she was an escaped fugitive instead of a music superstar. The publicist still in Sasha could fake it to herself and say that Christy was laying down tracks in the studio, but she knew better. There was raw fear in Christy’s eyes, and for good reason—so Christy spent all her time either in the studio or in the office, leaning on Sasha and Melinda for support.

“Another day, another pornographer,” Melinda sighed, handling Christy’s e-mail like a taster checking the queen’s food for poison.

“Who is it now? Peter’s outfit? Someone outside Hollywood for once? Or just another personal site from some girl lookin’ for a dream and endin’ up a fantasy?” Christy asked with a sneer.

“Looks like Mountain’s false face. Too rigid in their moves. You know they like to really scrub those brains clean,” Melinda said, sounding exhausted.

“It will stop. It has to stop. Even if it takes forty days and forty nights, it will stop at some point. Just make sure you have two of everything, and all will be restored,” Christy said with her head in her hands.

“It will, it will. Forty days and forty nights sounds like the pretty good seed of a song,” Sasha suggested in an almost motherly tone. It had only been six months since Bree had left, but it felt like an eternity. Hollywood deterioration into a pit of vipers and lust, thinly masked with the excuses of drugs and alcohol, had put everyone on edge. Sasha wondered how much she had left, or if Christy had finally asked too much of her. The millennium was ending, and it looked like everyone’s sanity was going away with it.

Melinda wore the wicked grin that preceded her most diabolical schemes. “Hey, you heard the whole Internet and all the computers are going down on New Year’s, right?”

“Y2K’s an urban legend. Oh, no. No, no, no. I know what you’re thinking with your fearless face on. Not even you’re a good enough hacker to try it,” Sasha said in sudden realization.

“I know. But investing in nothing yields nothing. A little flicker here, a slow load there, maybe a crash or two, and watch the money stream dry up like a lawn in drought conditions. How many investors are stuffing money down these overloaded bras?” Melinda asked with an evil smile.

“Enough that the strip joints are going out of business,” Sasha laughed. That was one thing that kept Sasha from completely losing it and demanding that Christy let her go. Melinda was an amazing planner and saw the big picture like no one else Sasha knew—but she had a tendency to not think about the small details and how they would affect people. That was one of Sasha’s strengths. She knew how to implement plans, even to the point where Melinda could be afraid of what they were doing. It helped them with the staff and with putting together the effects for the new tour to deal with the wild flashing lights and shiny objects of the big labels. They made a good team, and one that could deal with Christy. That didn’t make Christy’s breakdowns any less alarming or less taxing._

“We’re hittin’ Detroit? Fine, but I want extra security keepin’ anyone in overalls out. Anyone! Don’t know the whole story, but if you saw their makeup, you wouldn’t want to,” Christy said.

“I’ve heard about them,” Melinda agreed warily.

“Yes, and they don’t invade concerts, and if they did, it wouldn’t be melodramatic bitch rock! And no, I’m not having the local staff look for cameltoe up girls’ crotches in Philly either, and I’m not going to scour every porn site in the world to make sure your opening act isn’t out there. I’m not that into girls! Melinda, maybe. But there’s such a thing as being too paranoid,” Sasha replied with an exasperated eyeroll, having come to the end of her patience.

“If it’s too much for you...” Christy said, clearly hurt but not backing down.

“It’s not me I’m worried about. I’m still yours, which means I can tell when it’s getting to you. Now get out there before you drive yourself insane,” Sasha said with a snap of confidence.

“You’re right, you’re right. Gotta rise up against this. Hard to deal with a truth that isn’t there. But you’re right. I gotta get out of here. First stop’s in a week, right? New album hits Tuesday and the new single’s already at number one,” Christy said, catching her breath.

“Yes, yes, and yes—as long as you let it get better when you’re out there. I’m not the only one concerned. I mean, Magdalena asked about you. When your choreographer asks if you’re okay, you’re obviously not,” Sasha warned.

“Can’t have the choreographer worryin’. All right, all right, you’ve said your piece. Go on and enjoy yourselves for the rest of the night,” Christy said with a wry, forced smile and a dismissive wave.

Sasha and Melinda could take a hint and headed out of the office. “Wow. I think you got through to her,” Melinda said.

“I don’t know. I hope so. The thing is, I get the paranoia, I really do. Everyone sees it. Used to be you saw a true bimbo maybe twice a day as you drove around town. Now it’s every other woman and a good portion of the men being groomed for some kind of... role. And the ads... ugh, the ads. I may not have the official publicist title anymore, but that’s still part of who I am. I see all the madness. Hell, I see little nobodies selling their fried girlfriends in the classifieds just to exchange them for more... enhanced... models,” Sasha said, inhaling for effect.

“I know, I know, but Christy’s good. She’s going to be okay. She wrote the last album on this, and she’s already gone platinum. We’ll be fine. Once she’s out on the road, she’ll be okay. She’s a songbird, she needs to fly,” Melinda said, but her nervous grin told Sasha that she was singing along to the music in her head and not saying what she believed just to stay strong for Christy’s sake.

Sasha understood the instinct, and if things were just a little better or just a little worse, she might have done the same thing. But Christy needed to get back on her feet, and if that meant Sasha had to prod her upright, then so be it. She hoped that the tour would be enough to put the world back in perspective.

When Christy summoned them into her office the next day, she was in the highest of high dudgeons, waving around a pair of papers as if they had personally offended her honor. “Who booked this tour? Night in and night out, Swords is on my ass like a stalker. Chicago—she’s in the Horizon the day I’m at United. Detroit—she’s got the Palace, I’ve got the Joe. She’s in New Jersey when I’m in New York, she’s in New York when I’m in New Jersey. Maybe we should add a show at Jones Beach so the little hoochie tries to take the Mausoleum and gets herself trampled in the rush. I ain’t here to go toe-to-toe with some airheaded barely-legal teen idol, I’m here to make music and do it well. No reason to pick a fight.”

“Tell those assholes at Senate that. We booked everything two months in advance, proper protocol. Senate booked Swords in right after. Why they’re gunning for you, I don’t know. She’s teenybopper, you’re angst. Hasn’t hurt either of your sales. She has her fans, we have ours. Locals haven’t reported any problems, which was why we didn’t bring it up before. Scalping isn’t excessive. You’re going four digits on eBay, she’s only topping out at five hundred,” Sasha reported.

“And you got the better of the two arenas in almost every city. I don’t get it either. I really don’t,” Melinda said, looking over the list.

“I do, I fucking do. They don’t want my fans. They want me. They want me to be more pop, to fit in more so the kids are too happy to think. That sells records, which gets me doin’ jingles for the pancake house, grabbing my breasts for Pepsi, and doin’ donuts in a cheap Japanese car ‘cause the company owns half the label. Fans still love me, even if it’s just for the voice. I speak and sing from the heart, they speak and sing from the checkbook. Digital age is comin’, so they want music they can chop up and put in ads, since records aren’t gonna be the main source of income anymore,” Christy lamented with a scowl.

“So... they’re going to chase you with a blonde in a tour bus? And I thought a running back in a white Bronco was weird,” Sasha snarked.

“They don’t need to catch me. They just need to put the pressure on. Maybe I don’t sell as much, maybe there’s a few empty seats here, maybe there’s a bad review somewhere else... don’t matter as long as they can squeeze Swords ahead of me,” Christy said, starting to pace as her nerves kicked into overdrive.

“If the plan is to drive you nuts with pressure, you’re letting it work. Get some rest. Nothing bad is going to happen because there’s a new sensation trailing along behind you,” Sasha said. She didn’t let Christy splutter an answer, instead turning away and heading back towards her bunk. Melinda waited a moment, then followed.

Sasha hadn’t gotten far, leaning against the wall for support. “If she’s like this all tour, I’m going to go postal,” she told Melinda, rubbing at her eyes.

“I know, I know. She’s so afraid of everything. This isn’t the woman who made us worship her. She used to have the fun side to her that you were so good at teasing out. And it’s happening so fast...” Melinda said with a sigh.

“Yeah... she should have the opportunity to be that girl from Georgia she wants to be—but it’s the girl from Georgia who’s scared to death for her self. The persona? That’s always going to be there. But I think Christy’s afraid of losing the person she wants to be. She sees everything getting worse across the board, and she doesn’t know when it will stop, if it will stop, what would make it stop. It’s not just music. She’s a controller, like it or not. She doesn’t treat it like a privilege, she treats it like a responsibility. You see how she goes out of her way, even for just the local staff, let alone us.”

“And now she’s seeing people not just indulging in the privilege, but making sex puppets with it,” Melinda finished.

“Nationally,” Sasha agreed. “It used to be something you were born with. Now it’s something you can pick up if you’re nerdy enough. And because of who and what she is, she’s pitched her tent right in the middle of the worst of it. I can’t blame her, and I choose to stay, but it doesn’t make my job any easier,” Sasha said.

“Follow your own advice, go to bed,” Melinda said gently, shoving Sasha off down the hall.