The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Prologue

Gmail Account of Deborah [last name redacted]

Unsent Drafts

November 9, 2015

My daughter and I were still in nothing but our pantyhose when I awoke, Tom.

Dana stirred slightly at the sound of the opening hotel door, but otherwise remained asleep in my arms. But the whining of the old, brass hinges plus the brief flare of light from the hall had been enough to pull me from the sweetness of my dreams.

Dreams of my daughter and I—and so many others, too—nice and encased. Giving one another pleasure while being watched from on high by a figure half-seen in the shadows. He sits on a thrown, our King, our God.

Oh, such a wonderful dream it was. The real world was filled with worry, dominated by the search for Gina and David—how much better was the world of dream?

When you first wake up, it’s sometimes hard to tell the difference between the two, though. As in my dreams, my daughter and I were in our hose, covered from head to toe in them. Perfectly encased. So were the two men that had entered our room.

It was nighttime, some of the town’s old-fashioned street lamps were just outside our third-story window. Enough of their sallow light washed in from behind the curtains that the room was not completely black. In the half light, I could see the men clear enough, even if my view was made slightly gauzy through the nylons pulling over my face.

I knew who they were, of course—we had been traveling them for a week now, had together found our way here to Freerbury. Father and son. Like Dana and I, they were wearing dark pantyhose on their legs.

Like us, the upper bodies of each were covered in a pair of pantyhose: the crotch torn to accommodate their heads, the waistband was pulled down over their chests and stomachs to meet the waistband of the hose covering their lower bodies. Their strong arms filled the nylons’ legs like skintight sleeves, the nylons’ feet encasing their hands like translucent mittens.

Each of the men, again like Dana and I, had a pair of hose pulled taunt over their faces as a mask.

But it was their dicks that I focused on. How could I do otherwise? Both of their cocks were erect, straining through their nylons something like hungry dogs trying to break free of their kennel. The father was at the foot of the bed, his big dick pointing at my daughter like an accusing finger. The son’s pointed at me.

“Wake up, honey,” I whispered, my heart racing.

Dana stirred, instinctively kissing me on the mouth even before opening our eyes. As our tongues briefly played through our masks, I could taste her essence on my mask, and taste my own on her lips. My hands covered in nylon, I reached to touch my daughter’s pussy—the crotch of her hose still moist from my making love to her.

“Look, honey,” I said, grudgingly breaking the kiss. “We have company.”

Dana looked at the men. “Are we still dreaming?” she asked.

“I think so. Dreams within dreams of being seen and hidden.”

“Seen and hidden,” she repeated, and then the men said those sweet words as well.

“You’ve had sex you’re your daughter,” the father said. It was a statement, not a question.

I hesitated. Even if this was a dream, wasn’t it wrong to lick your daughter’s pussy? To have her lick yours? And to do it all while wearing something so fetishistic? I’m sure I would have thought it all terribly wrong, not too long ago.

“Yes,” I admitted.

My answer pleasing to them, each man took a step closer to the bed. And being closer to us, I noticed their nylons’ wet sheen where they covered their dicks and their mouths. Noticed too the scent of spent cum.

An image of the men 69’ing in their hose filled my mind. I pressed my fingers harder against my daughter’s nylon-covered clit. “And you’ve made love with your son.”

“Yes,” the father said. “It’s okay to have sex with our children when it’s just dream.”

“It is,” I agreed.

“It just symbolic of the love we feel.”

“Symbolic like the hose we wear.”

“Yes—of things seen and hidden.”

“Seen and hidden,” I whispered.

His son pulled the covers off our bed, revealing Dana’s and my intertwined bodies. “We can hide what we are from others, but allow each other to see it.”

“Because this is a dream,” I said.

“Yes, all a dream,” the son said as he and his father crawled onto our bed.

The nylons encasing my body whispered as the son rubbed his body against mine. We kissed through our masks, and I could taste his father’s still-moist cum on his. Delicious.

I looked over at my daughter, saw the father moving on her, saw them kissing. Her legs spread for him even as mine spread for the son’s.

“Are you going to give me the dick that your father sucked through your hose?” I whispered to the son.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Are you going to give me the pussy your daughter kissed through yours?”

“My pussy is yours,” I said between kisses. “No one can know we had these dreams—dreams of nylons and incest and bisexuality.”

“No one will,” he said, pressing his fingers into the crotch of my hose, forcing it up my pussy.

“When we wake up, we’ll just act normal. You won’t know I had a dream that you fucked me through my hose.”

“And you won’t know I dreamt the same thing.”

He tore through my pantyhose’s crotch. My pussy being completely exposed made me feel uncomfortable—I wanted him to see my pussy, of course, and to fuck it, but for it to also remain covered. If only there was a way where such a thing was possible.

He pulled down the waistband of his hose, exposing his cock. Even in the half light, I could see he didn’t like being uncovered either.

“Fuck me,” I said, as much to end the discomfort at having some of my flesh be un-encased as for the need I felt.

His cockhead played against the lips of my opening, and then he pressed into me. I gasped, savoring the thickness of his young dick. I heard a similar sharp intake of breath, and turned to see my own daughter being similarly penetrated..

“He’s in me so deep, Mommy,” Dana moaned.

“I know—Mommy’s pussy is being fucked too,” I said, rubbing my encased legs against my young lover’s nylon-covered ass.

The son hissed, “Her pussy is so tight, Daddy,” and I felt so much pride.

“Just like her daughter’s,” the father grunted as he plowed my little girl like she was a fertile field.

His warmth filling me, I bucked my hips against his, desperate to get every inch of his young dick in me. He pressed his cum-covered mouth to my ear: “The dick that’s fucking you right now—it raped your daughter.”

Even for a dream, this was almost too much. How filthy was it that a mother would love hearing something like this, that it would make her already dripping pussy even more wet?

I glanced again at my little girl as she was rutting with the father. They were so close, I could feel the heat radiating off their bodies, hear the bed groaning as the four us fucked.

“You came in my little girl’s pussy? You filled her with your cum?”

“Yes—I couldn’t help myself. I ripped through her hose earlier today, fucked her .”

I moaned, not caring if anyone else in the hotel heard. “And she took it like a good slut”

He was kissing my neck. “Just like her mommy.”

“Yes. Her mommy is so good at taking dick,” I said. “I took your father’s cock in me, after all.”

His dick was already enormous. Now it swelled even more. “I love that Daddy fucked you.”

“Yes, filled me with all his delicious cream.” I grabbed his masked face, began kissing his cum-moistened lips. “Just like he shot it into your mouth.”

He was battering my pussy so hard now. The men were strong, their thrusts slamming the headboard against the wall. My daughter and I were screaming, lost in lust. We were so loud that it reminded me this had to be a dream. Surely management would have knocked on the door telling us to keep it down otherwise.

“Oh god,” my young lover said as we looked in each other’s masked faces.

The reference to a deity reminded me of my earlier dreams, being watched from a throne by the half-seen shadow, far above us, as we worshippers writhed together in pleasure. “The seen and the hidden!” I screamed.

“The seen and the hidden!” the son cried.

My daughter and her lover joined in: “The seen and the hidden!”

We all kept chanting those wonderful words. The father started thrusting even harder and by my daughter’s excited squeal, I knew cum was being pumped into her yummy pussy.

The son’s body began to tremble. Then I felt his hot, young seed shooting into me as well.

His cum was a sacrament, our fucking a kind of worship. The truth of this breaking over me, I began to cum so hard. My orgasm a gift of my God.

How could I have been so blind to this truth? How could we have not known? Was it only a few days ago this journey began?

1.

YouTube Account of Dana [last name redacted]

Public Video

November 4, 2015

[The video opens with upbeat promo music as a graphic reading “Dana’s Fashion Directory” appears. The music ends quickly, and the graphic fades to the close-up of a 19-year-old girl. She has blonde hair and a dazzling smile.]

“Hey, what’s up, YouTube? It’s Dana—thanks for checking in.

“Okay, so I know you all subscribe for tips on makeup and how to look your best on a poor college student’s budget. And we’re totally going to get to that. I went to Sephora yesterday, and found some great stuff I just got to talk to you about today.

“But we’re going to start off a little different in today’s video. I’ve got a favor to ask. Don’t worry! It’s easy.”

[A full-screen image replaces the view of Dana. It is a photo of an early 20’s male in a Penn State T-shirt. His hair is a dirtier shade of blonde than hers, but the two share a nearly identically bright smile.]

“So, this guy is my older brother, David. And, well, he’s kind of missing.

“‘Oh my gosh, Dana, why don’t you call the police then?’ Yeah, yeah, it’s not exactly like that.”

[The photo of David shrinks to appear over Dana’s left shoulder, somewhat like a newscast graphic.]

“So, basically he and his girlfriend Gina ran away together. Romantic, right? I’d think so too except they didn’t give my mom a forwarding address. Not cool.

“But they’re not missing-missing, you know, because evidently they’re still in touch with their landlord and some of their professors, they’ve just both ditched on their families.

“Worth repeating: not cool.

“Anyway, all that basically means is that it’s not a police thing. It’s a family thing. That’s where you come in, my dear subscribers.

“Have you seen this guy? If so, can you please, please, please tell him to give me or Mom a call? We just want to understand what’s going on. We’d help, whatever the problem is, right?

[Dana’s face darkens.]

“I know I’ve alluded to this a little bit here on the channel, but my Dad died earlier this year. I try to be positive, and you know, not to dwell on it. But ghosting on his family isn’t like David, or his girlfriend for that matter. So I think maybe it has something to do with that. Loss does weird things to people.

“I don’t really know. I’d like to, though.”

[A tear begins to form at the corner of her eye. Her voice cracks.]

“I mean, Thanksgiving is coming up in a few weeks. It’d be nice for the family to be together since it’s our first without Dad, right? Doesn’t seem like too much to ask.

“I realize it’s a long shot even with thirty thousand subscribers, but hey, you never know. So if you bump into this guy, tell him to knock it off, and give his family a call, okay?”

[The graphic of David fades. Her radiant smile returns.]

“Okay, enough of all that drama. Let’s talk about something more fun! So yesterday, I just picked up this new brand of eyeshadow, and I really like it…”

2.

Gmail Account of Deborah

Sent Messages

November 4, 2015

I know it’s been a while. How is Michelle? The both of you must be so proud of Samantha and Sarah. I saw some of her pictures on Facebook. It looks like her first semester at Dartmouth has been fun. If she’s anything like her father, I bet she’s hitting the books hard.

I know you might not want to hear from me. I’m also sure you’re busy doing the whole Google executive thing. (Yes, I realize Google is officially “Alphabet” now, but who actually calls it that?) But to the extent you can spare your big sister a favor, I would appreciate it.

David has disappeared. It’s not a true missing person case like you see on TV, though. (I suppose I should be grateful because those never turn out well.) Basically, my son has just cut me and his sister out of his life. No returned calls. No email responses. No forwarding address even though apparently he’s taken the semester off from college and moved.

(Would be interested in knowing how he has money to keep the lease on his and his girlfriend’s apartment. It’s certainly not any money I’ve given him.)

For all her upbeat, video makeup show persona (have you seen her channel recently? It really is like a TV show), Dana is pretty upset by all this. First her father dies, and now her brother disappears. Terrible year.

So I guess I should get to the point and ask my favor: is it possible for you to do a search to find someone?

I’m not talking about violating any company policy or anything. But if there are some secret Silicon Valley ways of locating people, can you use them to find David and then let me know? Or his girlfriend, Gina [last name redacted] (they appear to have run off together)? I’m sure anything you could come up with would be better than my own clumsy Google searches.

I’m not trying to drag him home or anything. He’s 21 now. Old enough to keep company with whoever he wants, and I guess avoid people he doesn’t want to be with. In my heart, he’s still my little boy, though. I want to know what’s going on with him. Was it something I said? Did his girlfriend turn him against me?

The need to understand is so important. I could probably let it go if I just understood why he disappeared on us.

If you can’t help, or don’t want to, it’s okay. I understand.

I guess I should tell you, Gina’s father called me today. He’s frustrated that the authorities won’t do anything. He says we should take things into our own hands, and find them ourselves. His name is Roger [last name redacted]. I get the impression he used to be a cop, or something like that? Very direct guy.

Anyway, he says he and his son are coming to the area to discuss face-to-face. Maybe do a search on this guy too, make sure he’s not an ax murderer or cult member? (Kidding.)

I hope you and your family are doing well. I miss you. I’m sorry we don’t talk anymore, but I understand. Still, if you think you can help find David and Gina, please do so. You can email Dana if you’d prefer not to deal with me.

3.

Evernote Account of Todd [last name redacted]

Private Note

November 5, 2015

I started doing these journals because that’s what they say writers should do: keep a journal. Write everyday. Build up your talent like working a muscle in a gym, I suppose.

It’s definitely good advice, but it only goes so far. I’ve been doing this for what, three years now? Dutifully typing away in my phone the day’s events and my thoughts about them. And I guess it’s definitely been good practice if I wanted to write late and post-high-school slice-of-life vignettes.

Asking for a girl’s number, sometimes getting it, most times not.

Sometimes getting laid, most times not.

The cliche heartbreak when you’re into her and she’d rather have sex with a 25-something guy that plays bass for a local band. (I’ve come to realize in the hierarchy of obtaining pussy, musicians trump photographers who trump writers. Of course, athletes trump all us artistic types.)

Young adult is still huge, so I guess I could still use all this human condition stuff. I’d just have to change all the players to vampires or maybe set it in a dystopian future to make all the bullshit drama seem like something more important than glorified teen angst.

I could write about loss, sure. Losing a parent. Losing your mom in something as stupid as a traffic accident. Talk about the rage you feel when they never found the driver of the other car. Never even found the other car, though there was highway video and it even caught a license tag.

Yeah, it would be very easy to talk about the meaningless of things, how things do not happen for a reason.

Of course, when you’re like me and have delusions of writing action stuff, getting your novels into movies, making millions, banging aspiring actresses you meet at Hollywood premiers, I’m not sure that journal writing is that helpful. I mean, characterization is important, but so is stuff actually happening.

Murder plots, high-dollar thefts, terrorism. Something. Which is hard to come by when you’ve grown up in suburbia and led a pretty dull life. (This whole journal documents the evidence.)

I mean, I’m not my father. I’m not former Army special ops. Never worked for a government agency whose very acronym is cool enough to get thrown around in movies as shorthand for bad ass. It’d be nice if he’d tell me war stories, but he never does. Strong and silent type, in contrast to his wiry, constant-with-the-nervous-chatter son.

So instead of getting first-hand detail that could help me writing about things more dangerous than getting scalded by the expresso machine at work, I just have to read newspapers and try to put myself into all the bad things that happen. Weak and pathetic.

Which is why today is such a big deal. Today we’re dealing with a real-life mystery: The Case of My Missing Sister.

Okay, it’s a little lame when you caption it like a Hardy Boys title. But still, kind of a big deal: Gina has cu off contact with Dad, runaway with her boyfriend, a guy named David.

Dad’s pissed. He does a good job of using anger to cover his worry.

Personally, I don’t think it’s that big a deal. I mean, she’s still in contact with some of her professors, at least the way Dad tells it. She’s not caught in some human trafficking ring, and this isn’t Taken.

Even though Gina was in school to become an archeologist, it won’t be like an Indiana Jones adventure, either. For all her pet theories about lost civilizations, the real world isn’t that interesting. There aren’t going to be any hidden histories, magical artifacts, or secret societies, however badly us writers wish it was otherwise.

Still, there are mysteries here besides the obvious “Where did she go?”

Why did Gina ditch on her family? We’d always been a pretty tight family, or so I thought.

Why so selective a disappearing act, going completely dark on us but staying in touch with others? I mean, it makes sense to stay in touch with people you like and ditch those you don’t, but it also leaves us a path for us to track, Dad says.

Which is precisely what we’re going to do.

Dad’s been in contact with David’s mother. (And just the mom. Evidently, David’s dad died this year too. I wonder if that’s why Gina and David started hanging out—shared loss?) Dad wants us to take a trip together, both us and David’s family, and go find them. He doesn’t think it’ll be hard, but he does think it has to be an in-person thing. Force them to talk to us.

He thinks it’ll take a week, maybe two depending where they are and how far we have to drive.

Dad’s drawing a pension or two from some government agency or another, so the middle class equivalent of a man of leisure. (Pretty young compared to most retirees.) One (the only?) bright side of Dad refusing to pay for college after I made it clear that I was going to be a writer is that I’ve got time on my hands too. As a 19-year-old barista who’s cool with his manager, taking some time off is no big deal.

So, a road trip. It’s going to be a small thing, I know, and the big reveal is probably going to be that Gina and David eloped and she’s pregnant or something I like that. Big cry, everyone hugs it out, close scene.

That’s okay, because we’re going to be following clues, because I’m going to be learning from my father, because I’m going to know what it’s like to be on the trail of a mystery, what it feels like.

We’re driving to the Main Line suburbs of Philadelphia today to meet with David’s mom. It’s a pretty boring trip from Bethesda to Philly, usually. Never been so excited to make it until now.

4.

Notes of Roger [lat name redacted]

Handwritten

November 5, 2015

1. Traveled with Todd to residence of Deborah [redacted]. Discussed trip with Deborah and daughter, Dana.
2. Deborah has been on sabbatical from law firm since her husband died (get impression she’s probably never going back), so able to come on trip. Daughter not in college, earns money doing YouTube videos. Will be joining trip. Tried to dissuade. Don’t feel like chaperoning 19-year-old girl and my 19-year-old son. The daughter insisted on coming.
3. Plan is for me to locate. Because talking not my strong suit, Deborah, Todd, and Dana will make actual contact once I find Gina and David, convince them to come home.
4. In earlier phone discussion, Deborah referenced death of husband earlier this year. Did search for background—traffic accident similar to my wife’s death. Separated by only a week, other driver never found, just like with Elisa’s death. Coincidence, but still bothers me.
5. They began dating shortly after deaths of David’s dad, Carl, and Elisa.
6. Background from Deborah: David is psychology major. Junior at Penn State, same as Gina. David took death of father hard.
7. We will be going to Penn State tomorrow. Plan: meet with landlord, interview professors.
8. Requested Deborah’s permission to search her son’s room. Granted.
9. General impression: room is neat. Unusual for 21-year-old. (Certainly for my son.) Deborah says room wasn’t always this neat.
10. Did he neaten it to hide something? Knew someone might search?

12. No computer to search, unfortunately. Some photos of Gina and David from the summer.
13. One is from same time period as when Gina told me she had gone to Jersey shore—can tell by her hair length. Doesn’t look like beach town, with a tree-lined town square and huge cathedral behind them. Why lie about that?
14. Photo is of them kissing, shot is from waist up, just make out both wearing jeans. Gina in bikini top, David shirtless. Who is taking photo? No other photos of friends in David’s room.
15. Cathedral photo has no clear indicia of specific location. Took photo to see if could ID locale later.
16. Psychology books on shelves. Some random books on cult behavior and the psychology of ancient religions, but most are on sexual deviancy and fetishism.
17. One older book on his desk: Notes on Modern Sexual Disorders. ’70s vintage, stickers on it showing it was bought second-hand. Dollar bill used as a bookmark.
18. Bookmarked article: “A Study in Sheerness: Subgroups of Nylon Paraphilia”. Took book, will review article back at hotel.

A Study in Sheerness: Subgroups of Nylon Paraphilia

Dr. Jeanine Strauss-Carter

Penn State University

Originally Printed in The Journal of Abnormal Psychology

Reprinted with permission in Notes on Modern Sexual Disorders

Copyright © 1982

[…] As has been noted earlier in this article, pantyhose fetishism is one of the most common paraphilias among men. This is somewhat remarkable given that nylon has only existed since 1935, and that pantyhose themselves only came to market in 1959.

Given the popularity of this article of clothing (often a required part of the modern woman’s daily wardrobe what with more and more women joining the workforce) part of the explanation may be simple exposure.

That is, more women in the workplace, meaning more bodies wearing this item of clothing, meaning more men being exposed to it (on women they find attractive), resulting in more men making an unconscious association with the object to sexual pleasure.

Of course, that’s just among adult males. As we know, fetishes often come from associations made while young. Therefore, because the advertising for hosiery is so sexualized and modern media so pervasive, we should expect the number of men exhibiting this fetish to grow as the population of boys raised in the ’70s and early ’80s reaches maturity.

Thus, a fetish that never before existed in human history, and could never have existed before the chemical basis for nylon was discovered, is now being observed in clinical practices more and more. Moreover, it will continue to grow unless, perhaps, changes in women’s fashion trends or in mass advertising mean less exposure to such sexualization of this clothing.

Yet in my research, while the above model of nylon fetishism is certainly the most common, it is by no means the only. As with other fetishes, there are subgroups. Among the most interesting subgroups of pantyhose fetishism is one that, contra most paraphilias, appears to include men and women in roughly equal numbers.

For simplicity, I will call this subgroup of affected patients the encased and the fetish itself encasement. I use these terms because unlike the “typical” pantyhose fetishist, for the encased a pair of nylons is a means to an end rather than the end itself. By this I mean that the encased gain sexual pleasure in part by being covered snuggly from head-to-toe (or at least as much as possible), and that pantyhose with their form-fitting elasticity are a convenient way of achieving this desire.

There’s an argument to be made whether this is technically a paraphilia given its focus on the sensation of encasement. Might it not be viewed instead as being analogous to enjoying a very modest asphyxiation or physical restraint?

Given the near religious regard they have for the article of clothing, and that the article of clothing is the means by they are achieving their sexual gratification, I believe it correct to view the encased through a paraphilia lens. This is especially so because the sensation of encasement is not the only thing the encased seek.

This subgroup has an obsession, too, with being physically observed and yet obscured simultaneously. That is, they gain sexual excitement both from being partly seen and party hidden all at once. Because of the diaphanous yet opaque nature of nylons, this seen/hidden duality can be achieved typically with darker pairs. Indeed, the encased prefer darker pairs of hose to the near-total exclusion of nude-colored ones, another point of distinction with “ordinary” pantyhose fetishists whose preferences for colors are not nearly so absolute. (For instance, a given typical pantyhose fetishist may have a specific color as his favorite, but would still become sexually excited by hosiery of another color worn by him or his partner.)

This consistency in sexual preference among the encased is especially interesting because it seems to translate into uniformity among other thoughts. Anecdotally, the encasement patients seen in my study clinic have thought patterns so similar to one another, regardless of gender, that at times they have virtually identical dreams. […]

19. Finished article sections that David had highlighted. Bothers me.
20. Re-review Gina and David cathedral photo. Did not think anything of it until after reading article: at Gina’s waist, can just make out thin, dark line of fabric peaking over jeans. Dark pantyhose waistband.
21. Turn to David in photo. Take photo with cell phone camera of David’s waist-area, put on laptop to magnify. Barely observable, only clear once enlarged: similar line of dark fabric.

5.

Dana’s DropBox

MP4 file

Saved to folder “To Be Edited”

November 6, 2015

[The video opens to scene of modest, east coast mountains as seen from a moving vehicle. The trees are bare. The sky is overcast. The camera turns around so that the Dana can video herself.]

“Hey, what’s up, YouTube? It’s Dana—thanks as always for checking in. Reporting from the road today. This is the first day of our quest to find my brother David whose being a bit of a butthead and not returning family calls. We’re also looking for his girlfriend, Gina. And we’re starting at their college, Penn State. So hello from the highway to Happy Valley!”

[The camera pans around so that the viewed can see four people are traveling in a large, Chevy SUV. The camera pans to a thin, young man sitting next to Dana in the backseat. His features are pleasant, but somewhat soft. His black hair is a thick mop, his glasses not square as is the current fashion but small and round like a 19th century scrivener. He’s wearing a simple T-shirt from a half-marathon he recently ran. He waves awkwardly at the camera.]

“This is Gina’s brother, Todd, who is shy and doesn’t appreciate how handsome he is.” [Todd’s face turns red, and his smile morphs from goofy to embarrassed. Dana laughs.] Come on, relax, dude. I’m a whiz at editing.”

“I don’t want my face in any video.” [The camera turns towards the man who just spoke, the driver, Roger. He is a complete contrast to his son: buzzcut hair, hard face, thick shoulders. He looks younger than his 45 years because of his obvious physical fitness, yet also older because of the thousand-yard stare in his eyes as he looks at Dana in the rearview mirror. He is wearing a blue blazer and white shirt with no tie.]

“It won’t be—like I said, I’m going to edit this, if I even use it.” [The camera turns around onto her face. Her eyes are done with a smokey makeup. She rolls them at Roger.]

“So, YouTube, I was talking to Todd here this morning about finding our obnoxiously lost siblings. He made the point that it’s kind of a mystery trying to find them, so it got me thinking about sporting a more film noir, femme fatale look. (Note to self: insert video of applying make up this morning here.)”

“Maybe I should go for that look too. Perhaps it would have helped when we try talking to Gina and Todd’s landlord and professors.” [The voice is friendly, feminine, laughs lightly at itself. The camera turns to the front passenger seat. Dana’s mother turns back at her daughter. Deborah is a remarkably close resemblance to the 19-year-old Dana. At 42 she is attractive, but her hair has lost some of the incandescent blonde luster her daughter has. Despite her laughter, Deborah’s eyes betray a certain weariness.]

“Don’t say that, Mom—you can still flirt your way to answers.”

[More laughter between the women. Roger’s voice cuts in.] “Speaking of answers, Todd, do you have signal?”

“Sure.”

“I meant to look someone up last night—Dr. Jeanine Strauss-Carter. She taught at Penn State in the ’80s. I’m wondering if she’s still there.”

[The camera turns to Todd. As he types the query, Deborah’s voice can be heard from offscreen.]

“Who’s Dr. Strauss-Carter? David mentioned most of his professors this semester, and that name doesn’t sound familiar. One of Gina’s?”

“It’s a long shot. Just curious about something she wrote a while ago. Might help in profiling where David and Gina have gotten to.”

[On camera, Todd puts his phone away.] “You’re not kidding about the long shot, Dad.”

“She doesn’t teach there anymore?”

“Google search actually brought up an old obituary from the late ’90s.”

[The women in the SUV fall silent.] “Does it say how she died, son?”

“No one knows. She had to be declared dead. According to this, she just sort of disappeared.”

6.

Gmail Account of Deborah

Sent Messages

November 6, 2015

I guess I didn’t really expect you to write back. I’d hoped, but no, I did not really think you’d respond. I wonder if you actually read these at all, or if you’ve set up your email so these automatically go into the trash folder.

Either way, I’m going to keep writing. Who else do I have to write to? You know what I’m about more than anyone, little brother. The only one who does. It’s important to be understood. So either you read these and someone understands what I’m thinking beneath the practiced smiles and put-together wardrobe. Or no one does, and at least in writing all this I can understand myself a little bit more.

It was late morning by the time we arrived at Penn State. Huge campus surrounded by, well, not much. Cow fields here, some Amish there. I’d been here in the early autumn and late spring to visit David, but hadn’t been on the campus with winter truly looming.

As full of life as the campus itself is, the surrounding vastness of leafless trees and fallow fields depresses me.

“I want to meet with the landlord,” Roger said as soon as we arrived. “I want to know how they’re paying for the apartment.”

“And take a peek inside?” I asked, remembering him poking around David’s room back home.

I think it was the first time I’d seen the dour Roger [redacted] smile. “You know me so well already.”

The rent for their apartment, Gina and David’s landlord explained, arrived as cash in an envelope dropped off through his front door’s mail slot, on the 7th of every month. “Rent’s technically due on the 1st, but these college kids don’t always get money from their parents on time, and let’s be honest this generation isn’t exactly great with money,” the landlord, a nice elderly man and one of the increasingly few non-corporate apartment building owners in the area, rambled on to the four of us. “So the 7th is always the end of the grace period I let people have to pay rent without getting charged a penalty.”

“You haven’t been paid yet for their apartment?” Roger asked.

“Nope,” the landlord said, “but sure as the sun rising, I can expect it by tomorrow.”

“What time does their payment usually arrive?” Dana asked. Roger glanced at her, evidently impressed my little video star could manage a somewhat cop-like follow-up.

“Varies,” the landlord said. “Sometimes early in the morning before dawn even, and sometimes after sunset. I don’t mind if it’s midnight, as long as it’s by the 7th.”

“Can we take a look inside at their place?” Roger asked. We’d already explained the situation, and why the police hadn’t opened an investigation of their own.

“Gee, I’m sorry, mister. I know you guys are in a tough spot, and if it was cops I’d give you the spare keys with the warrant. But even though I’m pretty informal about things, I got to worry about not having renters sue me for just giving people access.”

“I get it,” Roger said in a flat voice that made clear he didn’t. “Thank you for your help.”

“What are we going to do, Dad?” Todd asked. I felt bad for the kid. He seemed so eager to please his father. It was a little sad since for as observant as I thought his dad was, I got the impression his father didn’t even notice the boy’s neediness.

Roger looked at his watch. “We’re burning daylight, and I don’t think we can check everything we want to today unless we split up. Todd, why don’t you and Dana go and see if you can speak to some of Gina and David’s professors. The cops said that they were at least staying in touch with a few of them.”

Roger emailed his son the list of professors. Todd took his assignment with the seriousness of being ordered to war. Dana, always with her hi-def video camera in hand, was serious about finding her brother but clearly was going to have fun along the way.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to let your son and my daughter go off together?” I asked.

“I doubt anyone will get pregnant.”

I laughed. “I know that.” Indeed, as much as it seemed like Todd might not mind the chance, it was clear to me that Dana had no interest. “I mean wouldn’t it have been better if we’d stuck with parent-child teams.” This was a nice way to say I didn’t want Todd to get his hopes up.

“They’re good kids, and professors are used to talking to people their age. Someone our age, they might button up, worried about a lawsuit or something. Besides,” Roger said, “as respectable looking 40-somethings, no one will suspect us of anything as we break into Gina and David’s apartment.”

I was scared when he suggested it. I’m an attorney, for God’s sake, I told him.

“Do you want to follow rules, or do you want to find your son?” he asked, driving us there even as I protested.

I waited in the car for a moment while he got out, went into an old Victorian home converted to apartments on the edge of town where Gina and David had lived. I sat there for a moment, thinking.

Since Carl’s death, I’ve been feeling reckless. I’d been following the rules so well, which as you know isn’t in my heart-of-hearts really natural for me. Doing what I was supposed to, and what to I get? My husband taken from me.

So I wanted to follow Roger into the building, help him break in. Being a lawyer that breaks the law felt like a way to spit in the universe’s face for what it had done to me. Give into my worst instincts—the kind you are so aware of.

The only thing that made me pause was a dream I had last night. Carl, nude, surrounded by white light, telling me not to look for David. To just stay at home, and live my life happily with Dana, accept my only son was gone.

Stupid dream. Troubling on a number of levels. Carl was a saint, certainly not the kind of person that would be okay with me breaking into anyone’s home. But I couldn’t believe he’d tell me to just let David go.

Give up my son? After my husband had been stolen from me? I think just to spite the dream, I ultimately followed Roger in.

By the time I got to the door, Roger had already opened it. We stepped in like the burglars we were. (Needless to say, please don’t forward this. If I ever decide to go back to the firm, admitting to a burglary could affect my standing in the bar—haha.)

I guess I’d expected overturned furniture and drug paraphernalia everywhere. Some indication of foul play even.

Instead, everything was tidy.

What struck me most was the photos on the wall. I’d never met Gina, but I recognized her from David’s photos. Here she was again, decorating their walls. They were very erotic in nature. Done in black-and-white with a good eye for composition, if she’d only been nude they’d have qualified as art.

Except in these, she was wearing dark-colored pantyhose. Most of them were of her legs. Several shots were of her rear end. No panties on underneath the nylons. One was a close-up of her eyes, staring at the viewer through the a pair of hose stretched taut over her face as a mask. Another was of a pair pulled over her breasts. In the final, high on the wall over the TV, as if in a place of honor, you could see her shaved slit through the nylons.

So many pictured, framed like one would family portraits. To be honest, given the girl’s lean body, they were somewhat alluring even to a female observer I’m embarrassed to say. Yet any worshipfulness wasn’t of Gina’s beauty, but of the things she was wearing. To be so obsessed with an object—it was disturbing.

Disturbing too that it was probably my son that had taken the photos. So this was what my little boy, all grown up, was into.

Roger looked at the photos in stony silence. “I’m sorry,” was all I could think to say.

“She’s a 21-year-old college girl in 21st century America. What else should a father expect? Come on. Let’s search.”

They must have taken their computers and other electronics. We rifled through drawers looking for any hint of where they’d gone, but found none. “Place was swept, just like your son’s room,” Roger practically spat. We even went through the books on the shelves, hoping to find some scrap of paper with a clue. It was easy to tell which belonged to our respective children. Ancient civilizations? Gina. Abnormal psychology? My son.

The books…they became more crackpot the lower we went on the shelves. Gina’s went from respectable textbooks about Sumeria and Babylon archaeology and history, and descended to quackery about lost continents and the empires that existed on them before some imaginary cataclysm ended it all.

Bad as that was, David’s were worse. Books about healing sexual fetishes devolved into dusty, yellow-paged hardbacks written by supposed colleagues of Freud’s who claimed that submitting to one’s sexual perversions opened one up to the gods. (Note the plural.)

I couldn’t take it anymore. “Good Lord, what have they gotten into?”

Roger said, “Death of a loved one can send anyone into a tailspin. Two people that have lost a parent so recently? Maybe they’re feeding off each other. Accelerating that tailspin instead of helping one another pull out of it.”

I thought again about that dream of Carl from the night before, telling me to give up my search. How wrong it had been. “We have to find them.”

“We will.”

We made sure to put everything back where we found it. “I guess that’s everything, except the bedroom.”

The shadows stretched longer in the room. Late autumn’s dusk had snuck up on us. The growing darkness made the photos of his daughter look all the more lurid. He took a deep breath, bracing himself. “Let’s get to it.”

There were no perverse photos in the bedroom, thank goodness. Hardly any decor at all, besides an old book on the bedside table. If anything, its lack of character made one wonder what, compared to the living room, had been so offensive that they’d felt the need to remove it. There were nails on the wall so clearly pictures had recently been there, but now the only thing that remained was a homemade, wooden sign, hanging over the crisply made bed.

“The Seen And The Hidden,” it read.

7.

Evernote Account of Todd

Private Note

November 7, 2015

Dad has me on the landlord’s front door this morning, watching to see who’s actually dropping off payment on Gina and David’s apartment. Been here since 4am, sitting in Dad’s big SUV. Turns out for all my fascination with cop and mystery-solving stuff, a lot of it is pretty boring. Like sitting and watching a door and trying to stay awake. But at least I can catch up on my journal.

Of course, given what the old guy said about how all these college kids basically turn their rent in on the last grace day, it’s going to be hard to know who I’m actually looking for. That’s why Dad said to just take photos, and get down their license plates, but not to approach them. He said with a license plate, he could track them down easily. With a photo, he could call in some favors and get an ID.

It’s cool he trusted me to do this. Really though, it should be him here so he can swoop in, ask the person questions then and there. He’d probably be handling this too—or at least we’d be sitting out here together—if not for what he saw at the apartment yesterday.

His expression was blank as ever when the four of us linked back up for dinner, but I could tell something was wrong. “What happened?” I asked Deborah.

“There were pictures of your sister at the apartment,” she whispered to me when Dad was out of earshot.

“What kind of pictures?”

“Erotic. Pornographic, frankly,” she said.

I couldn’t imagine Gina doing any kind of porn. She was always so bookish. What had happened to her?

“Do we think we can tell the cops about it?”

“We can’t tell them. Your father and I broke into the apartment to take a look,” she whispered as if the NSA might hear. “Telling them about the pictures means admitting we committed a felony. Anyway, especially in a college town, I doubt they’d consider a girl letting her boyfriend take dirty photos of her in pantyhose anything more than something to make jokes about and show their fellow campus cops.”

Can’t blame Dad for wanting to sleep in after that. God, what did he feel looking at those photos? Asking yourself where you went wrong as a father, I can’t imagine anything more horrible. Gina, how could you have done this to him?

At dinner in the hotel restaurant that evening, what Dana and I had found out talking to the professors dominated the conversation.

It hadn’t been as easy an assignment as I’d thought. Between classes and offices hours, we actually didn’t find many. The ones we did made up some bullshit excuse about not being able to talk about students (even with their relatives). We finally came upon a Dr. Terrence Stolz in the archaeology department.

He was older, bald, wore a sports coat with leather elbow pads. Stolz was clearly disinterested in me, but Dana was another story. “How may I help you? Considering a major in archaeology or the classics, perhaps?”

It was impressive watching Dana handle him. She’s pretty, so people naturally like her. And she knows she’s pretty, so she’s able to work it to her advantage. That confidence made it easy for her just to lay out why we were there, and ask him if he was one of the professors Gina supposedly kept in touch with.

“Keeping in touch might be an overstatement. As I told the police, she’s contacted me a few times via telephone recently,” Stoltz had said. “She did not sound like she was in any danger, or on any intoxicating substances. She sounded no different than usual. Focused on her little passions as much as ever.”

“Little passions?” I’d asked.

“A polite way of saying obsessions. When Gina came to the department, she was among the most driven students I’d ever met. After her mother died, something tripped in her. The laser focus remained, only she turned it to theories unworthy of this department.”

“What kind of theories?” Dana had asked like a young Katie Couric.

Dr. Stoltz had shifted uncomfortably behind his cluttered desk. “There are certain ideas in archeology about civilizations that predate ancient Sumer and Egypt. An age of sword and sorcery, allegedly destroyed in a massive cataclysm typically equated with the Biblical flood story. The legends of this age have existed in one form or another at least since the Greeks and their myth of Hyperborea.”

“Why would Gina care about it?” I’d asked. It hadn’t seemed to really connect with Mom’s death.

“That I can’t say. According to legend, this lost age was more in tune with an even more remote past when horrible, beast-gods literally walked the Earth. Madness, surely, and regrettably the internet has allowed the deranged to unite and revel in it. But these old gods, if one were to believe the fragments of myth that have survived down to our own time, sometimes offered their worshippers immorality in their strange cities. Perhaps that’s what attracted Gina to this rubbish.”

“What specifically did she say when you spoke?” Dana had asked. “Any clue where she and her boyfriend might be?”

“No hint where she currently is, I’m afraid. I told the police most of it, at least what would make sense to them. I was trying to protect her reputation, you see, and I suppose trying to protect the police from going down a rabbit hole that, well, they might not come back from. You see, besides assuring me that she was okay, Gina also told me that the stories of this lost age and the old gods were real. She told me she’d found or been given a stone of incredible power—the Crimson Eye of Tsath, she called it. She said she’d show me, and then I’d come to believe. I declined the invitation, however.”

“What is Tsath?” Dana had asked.

“Never heard the word before, but the way she spoke of it, there was no doubt she considered it a god.”

As we’d gotten up to leave, Dr. Stolz had stopped us. “You know, I don’t believe in this pseudo-history. But I’ve had a number of colleagues over the years that have. None of them came to good ends. Maybe it would be best for you and your families to let this be? Perhaps your siblings will find their own ways home to you, if they can.”

Dana’s radiant smile had dimmed as we left. “I had a dream about my Dad saying something similar last night,” she’d told me.

Which was troubling because I’d also had a dream about Mom last night, telling me to not follow Gina. It was a weird, disturbing dream—Mom had been nude, surrounded by white light. The dream didn’t feel erotic or anything, but the Freudian implications were obvious.

That’s why I didn’t tell Dana about it. What was I going to say, “Hey, I dreamt about my dead parent too, except she was naked”?

As we’d finished dinner, we agree that I’d take first shift watching the landlord’s place for whoever was dropping off Gina and David’s rent. The girls went to their room, and Dad and I went to ours. He fell asleep quick—he’d been driving a lot the past two days. I stayed up a little longer, though, checking Twitter and generally wasting time online.

Stolz had mentioned disappearing professors, though, and that made me think of the professor Dad had asked about on the drive to Penn State: Jeanine Strauss-Carter.

Evidently, she’d been a well-renowned psycho-sexual researcher in the ’80s and early ’90s before she vanished. Pretty too, in a retro way, judging by the picture that populated in Google when I searched her.

One of her big areas had been fetishism, especially pantyhose fetishism. After what Deborah had said about the photos she and Dad saw of Gina in the apartment, both Strauss-Carter’s research and her disappearance felt kind of foreboding.

Up early, out of the hotel room, and now I’m sitting here going back and forth between my phone and eyeing the landlord’s place. Have to keep the SUV on to stay warm—it’s so cold and it’s only early November. Sun is finally starting to come up. Everything is cast in a dim, blue light.

And what do you know?! Here comes a girl now towards the landlord’s door. She’s carrying carrying an envelope. She’s dropping it off in the mailslot.

Stopping to take pics with my phone like Dad said.

Got them.

Except she’s walking so no license plate to track.

Dad said he could eventually get an ID just with a photo of their face alone, but it’s early, and the morning light’s still weak, and I don’t think the resolution of the pics is that good.

Besides, this is the one we need to talk to! I can tell because, well, she’s wearing pantyhose. Not even tights that might be a little warm, but sheer nylons despite the cold.

Between Dr. Strauss-Carter’s research and the photos at Gina’s and David’s place, that can’t be a coincidence, right?

Fuck it. I’m going to follow her.

It’s nighttime now, and I’m back at the hotel.

Everyone’s excited because we’ve got a lead. We’re all packed up, ready to leave first thing tomorrow morning. Dad is proud of me, even though I didn’t follow the plan to just take photos. He tells me I did a good job showing initiative, and that because of it we know where to look next.

I wish I could feel proud as we sit in the hotel room, him reading in his bed some book he grabbed from Gina and David’s apartment, me in mine updating this journal.

Of course, I didn’t tell them the full truth. Didn’t tell them everything that happened this morning.

I’m the same person, I don’t care what the girl said. I’m the same person, I don’t care what we did.

The girl that had dropped off the check was in her early 20’s. Except for showing nylon-covered leg like she was modeling for Victoria Secret, she otherwise looked like any other college girl on a cold, autumn morning: pea coat, gloves, casual skirt, boots, lush, red hair flowing from beneath a knit cap bearing a Nittany Lion logo.

She was walking quickly. Following her in my Dad’s armored personnel carrier of an SUV would have been noticed quick on the empty, early-morning streets. Instead, I tailed her on foot to another apartment a couple blocks away.

It was a newer kind, with card key security, and I barely caught the outer security door before it closed and locked behind her.

She was a skittish thing, turned to look at me as I rushed into the hall. Not exactly a ninja move, the door banging shut behind me. I recovered by doing my best imitation of Dad: “You know Gina [redacted] and David [redacted].” A statement, not a question.

She hesitated a split second too long before answering. “Who?”

“The people you just dropped off the rent for.”

That got her attention. “Who are you?”

“Gina’s brother. She’s missing. But you already know that.”

“Her brother?” she repeated, as if taste-testing an hors d’oeuvre. Then an urgency seized her, as if she remembered a stove she’d left on at home. “You should really go. You don’t want any part of this.”

“I want to know where she is.”

“I don’t know.” She turned and rushed down the hall.

Even though she was moving fast and nervously, there was a sway to her hips that in retrospect was like a baited hook. I looked at her long legs. Maybe it had come from skimming some of Strauss-Carter’s articles on fetishism last night, but there is definitely something uniquely alluring about a woman’s stockinged leg. I guess they wouldn’t wear things like that otherwise if it didn’t have that affect on me, right?

So I followed her. “Hey, we’re not done,” I said with an astonishing amount of false confidence as she got to her apartment door. She tried to slip in, but I pushed my way inside.

“No!” she shouted.

“I want to know why you’re paying their rent, and where—” Looking around the room, my voice cut off.

It was a small studio, the bedroom, kitchen and living area all compressed into a single, shared space. Dad had mentioned he thought Gina and David’s apartment had been swept, as if to hide anything too incriminating.

That wasn’t the case with this girl’s place. Dark, nylon stockings were everywhere on the floor. They weren’t tossed there randomly, though, but laid out to form a circle or wheel around the coffee table. Instead of having magazines on it, the coffee table had candles surrounding a painted, red rock.

The pictures on the walls weren’t of the redhead and her friends at college parties or anything else so normal. No, these were like black-and-white shots of her, nude except for the pantyhose covering her body.

The photo prints were large, and hid nothing. I could see her ass in them, her breasts, her pussy. The images hit my brain with a hammer. I felt high.

That wasn’t the weirdest thing, though.

Dad had mentioned the nails on the wall of Gina’s bedroom, as if pictures had been hanging there, but recently taken down.

Well, here they were, leaned against the a nearby wall waiting to adorn the redhead’s apartment: pictures of she and Gina in their hose from head-to-toe; pictures of she, Gina, and David similarly encased.

“What the fuck?” was all I could say even as I felt my dick grow hard in my jeans. I felt sick, not sure which as worse: my cock responding to a dude in hose, or responding that way to my sister. “What the fuck is this?”

The redhead looked nervous, the way a smoker might jonesing for a cigarette. “Look, I’ll tell you, okay? I’ll tell you everything I know, but before I do, I just need to…to get comfortable,” she said, taking off her knit cap.

“Whatever. I just want to know what’s going on.”

She kicked off her boots and shed her pea coat. I’d thought that that’s all she meant by getting comfortable, but I was wrong. She unzipped her skirt next, and I watched it slide down her hips, heard it whisper down her dark nylons.

I could see her pussy through the material, bare except for a tiny landing strip just above. I said nothing. Any great, fictional detective or action hero would take a beautiful woman stripping in front of them in stride, right? Of course, it wasn’t like I’d been naked with many girls.

Her top was next. Weird as all this was, I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that she’d been wearing an extra large pair of hose so that they could be pulled up over her small breasts in lieu of a bra. Each nipple was lanced with a ring, and they glinted through the black nylon at me. Above where the waistband had been pulled up to, there was a spray of light freckles across her chest.

God, I was so hard.

She bent over and grabbed one of the dark hose laying on the carpet. I noticed that the crotch was cut out of these. There redhead put her arms into the hose’s legs, and pulled them over her head like a long sleeve T-shirt. Then the redhead picked up another pair, pulled them over her face like a bank robber might except not so taut that it distorted her features.

I could still make out her pretty face through the material, but the details were obscured now, both seen and slightly hidden.

She sighed once the mask was on her as if only now able to relax. “There…so much better. Okay, so what were you asking?”

I could barely remember myself. “Why are you paying Gina and David’s rent?”

“They asked me to.”

It was hard not to look at her breasts, but also hard to look into her masked face. Something about it being covered made me feel like a pervert for not looking away. I forced myself to hold her gaze. “And you just spend your own money out of the kindness of your heart?”

“They send me money.” She gestured to where a small box sat open on the kitchen counter. It still had a two hundred-dollar bills inside, presumably a little extra to the redhead for her trouble in dropping off the rent. The bills were the old kind, from before they redesigned most dollars with the new, larger portraits.

No return address on the box, but it was postmarked from Freerbury, Massachusetts. I was so excited, but tried to stay in character as the detective on-the-trail. “Do you know where in Freerbury they are?”

“No. But if you go there, I’m sure they’ll find you.”

“Doubt that.” After all, this started when they ran from us. I gestured at the photos of her wearing her hose with my sister and David without looking at them. “What’s the deal with this? The whole pantyhose thing?”

I saw her smile through the mask. She took a step towards me. I looked at her encased feet, how her painted toenails glistened darkly through the nylon. “So much of the world is obvious, isn’t it? What you see is what you get. Boring. So much of it is hidden—it might be exciting, but how do you know that if we don’t see it? But if you combine the two, you have the truth still encased tightly in mystery. The best of both worlds. Reality with its flaws obscured. Enough mystery revealed to excite you. It’s in that space that God exists.”

Okkkkaaaaay. “Um, still not seeing the connection to pantyhose.”

The redhead had been close by then. She pointed to the exposed skin on her upper chest, just below her throat where the mask began. “You can see the freckles here. So flawed.” Then pointed to the top of her breasts, covered by the hose. “Here it’s screened with some mystery, and becomes an idealized truth. The flesh as it was meant to be.”

I felt like I was beginning to understand. It surprised me as my hand reached out to touch her trim waist. I’m so rarely the guy that makes a move on a woman. It was like I needed to touch that idealized truth she was talking about. It felt so smooth. So pleasant as my fingertips stroked up and down the material.

“See? You like it. The seen and the hidden.”

“I…do.” I liked it a lot.

“Do you want to experience it?”

“Yes.”

She kissed me. The material made her lips feel softer than any other girl’s I’d ever kissed before. Our mouths opened, and our tongues played against the soft barrier of her mask. Not being able to fully enter her mouth drove me kiss her harder. Her encased hands pulled off my shirt as I started groping her breasts through the nylon.

She guided me to sit on the couch, and kneeling before me, undid my zipper. There was a mirror on the far wall—in it, her body was a smooth, curved shadow between my legs. I breathed in sharply as she took out my dick with one nylon-gloved hand, massaging my balls with the other.

Her masked lips kissed the tip. “Pleasure opens mind, and its then we can be changed.”

I would have agreed to anything to get to blow me right then. “Okay,” I said. She smiled, and opening her mouth, wrapped her nylon-covered lips around my cock. I groaned as she gently started to suck.

I didn’t really know what opening my mind meant, but as I closed my eyes, the first thing I saw was my mother. Like in my dream, she was nude and surrounded in white light. “Don’t,” she was saying now, then telling me to get out of there.

There was nothing erotic about Mom’s nudity. After the redhead, would bare skin ever be a turn-on again? My dick had been so hard, but Mom’s words more than the sight of her made me start to go flaccid.

The redhead noticed. She started working my shaft more intensely. In my mind, my mother started to shout more forcefully to run. It felt like I was the rope in a tug-of-war.

Slowly, the image of Mom began to darken. The whiteness faded, and her nude figure was pushed aside. Crowding into my mind were images of darkly-encased bodies. Men and women, they writhed in pleasure as their seen and hidden forms extracted pleasure from one another.

I wanted to be with them. To join them, feeling pleasure like I did now and, yes, giving it to others too. I felt so dirty at the thought. “Oh fuck, that feels so good,” I said.

I kept my mind open to it, as the redhead instructed. My head fell back as I could she continued to suck me, her gloved hand massaging the shaft as she took me deep into her mouth.

The nylon of her mask heightened it, the feeling of the material amplifying the sensations running up and down my dick. “Oh fuck, you’re going to make me come.”

She sucked faster, harder. In my mind, my view of those encased bodies dimmed slightly more, because slightly blurred, as if a nylon mask were being pulled over my face. And I approached to join them, and as I got closer, I could see how massive the tits of the women were, see how enormous the men’s cocks were. I wanted to pleasure all of them, I wanted to be like them, part of their family. I’d do anything for that.

I felt my balls boiling over. I felt all my hot cum screaming up the length of my cock. I felt it reach the tip of my dick. Even though I’d masturbated that morning in the shower, it felt like there were gallons of cum trying to get out of me. Too much to fit through my dick hole, making it almost agonizing until all that seed finally began to shoot out of me.

“Oh god, I’m cumming! Fuck! Fuuuuuucccckkkkk!”

It shot into her nylon-covered mouth, and she swallowed it—she fucking drank it—like it was the sweetest thing in the world.

Eventually, her mouth surrendered my dick, a tendril of cum briefly connecting my cockhead to her mask before dribbling down her chin. For all the cum she’d swallowed, the mask had still netted a lot of it, the glistening whiteness in sharp contrast to the fabric covering her face. With one encased hand, she continued to stroke my soaked dick. With the other, she smeared the cum still on her lips across the rest of her masked face.

“There—marking your territory,” she said. “But I’m not the only one that’s been marked. You’re marked too, now. Marked like I was marked by David, like he was marked by your sister. You are a servant of The Seen And The Hidden, now, just like me. Eventually you will become His bride, too. You, and the others with you.”

I didn’t know what she was talking about. I was breathing hard, my head swimming. The most intense sexual experience of my whole life. As good as I felt, as satisfied, there was also fear: would I ever be able to feel anything like this again? I’d do anything to recreate this.

Before I knew what she was doing, she leaned in and kissed me on my mouth. I tasted my own cum. It was so sick, but I kept kissing her, our tongues again playing through her mask. “See?” she whispered between cum-soaked kisses. “You’re already changing. Already doing things you never thought you would. That’s how it starts. That’s how it spreads.”

I got up slowly from the couch, dazed. She took several pairs of pantyhose from the floor, and shoved them into the pockets of my coat as I dressed.

I staggered out of the apartment. Only once outside and feeling the cold air on wetness did I remember to wipe my cum from my lips. I sat in the SUV for awhile trying to get myself together, trying to process what just happened. I put my hands in my coat pockets, felt the nylons she’d just given me. As I did, my dick became instantly, almost painfully, hard.

As I write this back in the hotel room now, sitting on my bed, nothing’s really changed, whatever the redhead said.

I’m the same aspiring writer. Same loyal son.

Same shy guy that’ll never pull a girl like Dana.

Everything is the same, for good or ill.

I jerked off this morning in the shower, and did again this afternoon. So what if I used the pantyhose to get off this time, wearing the cum-stained hose under my jeans?

So what when I came in them I saw those wonderful, shadow-encased bodies touching and loving each other?

So what if in my fantasy I was one of them?