The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

WHAT GIRL IS THIS

CHAPTER THREE:

She cleaned up after dinner, and Stan loaded the dishwasher, mostly because he felt guilty watching her do it by herself. He settled in on his old couch to watch some TV. She continued cleaning. Her energy amazed him. Near midnight Stan began to grow tired and turned to talk to her.

She had taken all the clothes out of his closets, straightened and replaced some, ironed others, and set up neat piles of colors for the dirty stuff. Stan saw a pair of his dirty boxers near the top of the white pile and blushed.

“I uh, I’m tired, you should take the bed, and I’ll sleep here on the couch tonight. Later I’ll get you a roll-away or something, I dunno.”

“Oh Stan, that’s so nice of you, but I can’t. I have to spend my first few nights in my shipping container.” She smiled at him.

He frowned. “Why?”

“I don’t know really, something to do with maintaining my body.” She seemed to consider a moment. “I think that my need to be in my crate will go down over time.”

She brightened. “Besides Stan, I’d never be able to live with myself, and I really do mean that, if I was in your bed and you were on a couch. I’d feel ashamed, humiliated, and upset.” She paused again, as if taking inventory. “Yes, that’s exactly what I’d feel, ashamed, humiliated and upset. No, I’d be much, much happier sleeping naked at the foot of your bed.” A tiny shiver ran over her. “Oh yes. MUCH happier.”

“Naked at the foot of my bed?” He stood and began to walk towards his room. “That’s like some weird stuff, right there.”

As Stan stripped off his clothes in his bedroom, Freckles jumped up on the bed. “Well Freckles, she’s not a doll. She’s a freaking green-skinned Orion slave girl or something... or one of Mudd’s women.” He shook his head. “Who does that make me? Kirk or Mudd?”

She peeked her head in around his open door. “What time do you like to get up, Stan?”

Stan pulled the covers up quickly and said. “Oh um, six-thirty, and please close that door, sorry.”

That night, as Stan slept, the girl completed the first pass of her cleaning. At three AM she climbed into the oak crate, replaced the tubes and sealed it shut. In the silent apartment, only Freckles heard the almost silent whir of the ventilation fans.

At exactly Five AM, the crate unsealed again and the girl unhooked herself and stepped back out.

From five to five thirty, she exercised in the darkened apartment, silently. She whipped through a blinding series of calisthenics and drills, then followed that up with meditation. At Five thirty, she took a shower in the hallway bath and then unwrapped the toothbrush from last night’s shopping trip and brushed her teeth. She combed her wig, replaced it in the pouch and put on a red shoulder length wig, brushing it out as well.

At six, she started bread dough, then made eggs and small ham slices. While cleaning the previous evening, she had found recent grounds in Stan’s coffee maker, indicating that he liked coffee, so she made him a fresh pot.

At six-thirty, there was a knock on Stan’s door. “Uk?”

She opened the door and brought his breakfast in. Blinking, he sat up rapidly. “Oh, uh you didn’t...”

She laid the table-leaf improvised into a lap-tray over his lap, and kneeled down beside the edge of his bed. “Coffee, do you like it with cream? With sugar? Eggs. I made scrambled with a bit of cheese and spices. Would you prefer poached, sunny-side up? Fried? Or do you not want eggs? Fried sausage links, do you like patties, though? And I made you some bread for toast. But do you like whole wheat?”

He stared at the breakfast for a second. She’d left out of her description the half grapefruit, carefully segmented, the tiny snow flower plucked off his balcony and laid across the top of his plate, the way the sugar cubes were arranged in a pyramid, or that the drizzle of butter on his toast was done in precise wavy lines.

Stan sighed to himself and shrugged. “Cream AND sugar please. Two sugars. Decaf at night. I like sunny-side up mostly, but an omelette or a scramble is fine. Sausage patties, not links, though not the spicy kind. I love whole wheat.”

He watched her slowly blink, digesting his words even as he consumed her meal. He thought to himself that there was something weirdly intrusive, even disturbing about having someone interested in every aspect of your life. “It’s like the ultimate CIA weapon.”

“Stan? What is?”

“Oh, never mind. Nothing.” He ate his superb breakfast in near silence, looking at her, dressed once again in a too small undershirt and boxer shorts. “You could be a model, you know. You’re that beautiful... not like a skinny fashion model, like a ...” He blushed slightly. “You’re like ...”

“Like who, Stan?” She leaned forward slightly. Her large breasts swung under the shirt slightly.

Stan swallowed. “You’re like some porn model dream girl... like Martha Stewart in Jenna Jameson’s body. No wait, bad visual. You’re like... you’re... oh, never mind.”

She blushed and smiled a big grin. “Stanley, you’re charming! You say the nicest things. ... Are Martha and Jenna your girlfriends?”

Stan laughed so hard he spat eggs onto his lap. After a moment, she joined in the laughter, happy that he was happy.

At seven thirty, ahead of schedule for the first time in months, Stan left the apartment to catch his bus to work.

The girl cleaned up from breakfast, bundled up for the weather, carried out the trash, explored the apartment building, finding the laundry room, then came back and began the laundry.

While Stan was at work, the girl did all the laundry and ironing, finished cleaning the apartment, and began to investigate the mystery that was Stanley Edsel Mertz.

She did web searches on ‘Live long and Prosper’, on the meaning of the enigmatic ‘Babylon 5’ fridge magnet, on what ‘South Park’ was. She watched selections of shows off his DVD collection as she did her afternoon exercises. She explored his browser cache. She cracked his porn folder password in seven guesses and made copious mental notes about his preferences in sexual functioning.

As the time of his expected arrival neared, she finished sorting his bills, laying out the filled-in checks and envelopes awaiting his signature, and then balanced his checkbook.

Stan spent his day at work with a distracted air. Even Mr. Murtagh, his supervisor’s manager, noticed. “How was your christmas, Stan? You look a bit hung over. Get any nice presents this year?”

Stan looked up from the pile of RMA forms that he needed to fill out. “Oh.. Um. No. Nothing. Didn’t get a thing.”

“Well Stan, have a good new year, will you?”

“Actually Mr. Murtagh, I think I’ll maybe go out this year.”

“Good for you, Stan!” The older man slapped him on the back. “You know what they say, can’t win if ya don’t swing at the ball!” He laughed at his own humor and walked away, chatting with the other techs in their cubes.

Two cubes away, Stan heard Dwight Fellows yell to Marcia the receptionist. “Hey Marcy, did ya hear that? The Omega man is gonna try to get a date for New Years!”

Stan’s cheeks burned with anger. He’d been called the Omega man at work for two years, ever since Dwight had seen the old Charleton Heston movie about the last man on earth. Dwight had come in the next morning and made a joke about Stan’s chances with women working out.... if every other human being died.

Stan yelled out. “Well, it just SO HAPPENS that I DO have a DATE for NEW YEARS!” He discovered that the entire office had gone silent.

Mr. Murtagh turned. “So then, you’ll finally come to our party this year, Stan? Ginny invites you every year, remember?”

Still upset, Stan said. “I’d LOVE to, Mr. Murtagh, my date and I will be there. For New Years... uh, at your party.”

Murtagh nodded and smiled, walking away.

Dwight leaned back in his chair far enough that he could be seen in the aisle and looked at Stan. “You have a date, Stan? Didn’t Helen Keller die?” The office erupted in laughter.

Stan felt panic rise up on him like a wave. He took a deep breath and went back to his work. He whispered under his breath. “Oh crap.”