The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Chapter Four: “You are a blow-up doll.”

“You just don’t know it yet.”

Dr. Benway flashed Sara an antiseptic smile. She tried to scream around her gag, shifting her eyes from side to side. She needed to avoid his gaze. It was futile; clips held her eyes open wide, exposing them to stabbing fluorescent light and Benway’s icy leer. Sara’s whole self was wired open. Clips anchored her eyelids. Straps kept her legs spread. Clamps made her cunt lips gape wide. She could tolerate these humiliations if she could only close her eyes, if she didn’t have to watch Benway watching her.

The harsh overhead glare reflected off the doctor’s glasses, obscuring his eyes. She imagined multifaceted insect eyes beneath, some inhuman nightmare ready to swarm her carcass.

Benway turned away for a moment, noticing some aberration in one of the monitors along the walls of the circular chamber. Pale waxy fingers stroked dials and caressed keys. A digital display of a girl’s body convulsed in pain, or in ecstasy, or both.

She looked down at the tools around Benway’s waist. A reflection in polished scalpel steel stared back at her. Her pale, lush body had always pleased boys and turned heads. She had relished the attention she received for her Nordic good looks, and dressed to accentuate her figure, exposing thighs, midriff, and cleavage whenever possible. She was utterly exposed now, and, if the training sessions she had been forced to watch were any indication, she might not be allowed to wear clothes again. Her navel ring had been removed. Her voluptuous form had been redecorated with clamps and clips and wires, flesh disappearing into a maze of circuitry.

Benway kept adjusting. The pixillated girl image kept thrusting and struggling.

“I’m waiting, Benway, and I’m bored. I didn’t fly all the way her to watch you obsess over your machines.” Marlene exhaled a cloud of smoke in Benway’s direction. She tapped a leather boot heel impatiently against white tile. “Stop playing and explain.”

He winced as the cleared of smoke drift around his head. He cleared his throat and composed his features, smoothing away a trace of irritation.

“Of course. You’ve already seen the highlights of the techniques we’ve developed. Selective sensory deprivation, total isolation and restraint break down the subject’s resistance over a period of weeks. Reprogramming, through a series of voiced inductions, restructures a subject’s disorganized thoughts in the next phase. The scripts share some uniform characteristics, but they are generally tailored according to fairly extensive prepatory research. The combination of sense deprivation and continuous reprogramming has proved its effectiveness over decades, as prison administrators and intelligence agencies have amply demonstrated.”

Marlene drummed bloodred nails against the arm of her observation chair.

“Your generous funding has enabled us to enact programs of almost flawless observation and control. Automation allows for the sort of continuous and perfectly adapted reward schedules that even the CIA would envy.”

“With further research, the control program can be designed to adapt and learn on its own. Just like you’re going to adapt and learn, right, Sara?”

Sara trembled. Tears flowed down her cheeks. She twisted in her bonds again and looked down at her debased meat.

“I’m not paying you for a process, Benway. I’m sure that it’s all very fascinating, but I’m paying you for results.”

“Yes, yes, well...”

“Incidentally, don’t they look like shit after all this? She looks like shit, and you haven’t even put her in the hole yet.”

“Well, as I was about to say —”

“Don’t take that tone with me. I pay you too much to put up with any insolence. You couldn’t find any real work, you know, not with your record.” She flicked her burning cigarette in Sara’s direction. It came to rest about a foot from the restraint chair, still smoldering. Lines of smoke rose to sting Sara’s open eyes.

“Of course, I apologize.” Benway pursed his lips for a moment. “In answer to your question, Marlene, they do tend to look less healthy in the initial stages of the process. After the mind has been somewhat rehabilitated, however, we work on rehabilitating a subject’s body. We’ve converted a number of exercise machines, linking food, stimulation, and reassurance to the correct set of motions. Would you like to see the gym?”

“I’m sure that I will, at some point. At the moment, I’m interested in seeing results. I think I mentioned that. Were you talking or listening when I said that?”

“So, the results then —”

“Answer my question.”

“I must not have been listening carefully enough.”

“Perhaps you should pay attention in the future.”

“I will try.”

“Don’t just try, Benway. Do it.”

“I will.”

“I’d like to see the results now, if it isn’t too much trouble. Do you ever stop fiddling with those dials?”

“Until the process can be fully automated, attention to detail seems critical.”

“God, you’re pathetic, Benway. It’s a good thing for you that you can make robot girls. A real one would never pay attention to you.”

“My work has always been my first love.”

“Let’s see one of your robot girls, Benway, and see if you’ve actually accomplished anything.”

“As you like it.” Benway smiled at Sara again. “I think that you should really like this demonstration, Sara. Your special connection to some subjects is the only reason we’ve let you see the man behind the curtain, so to speak. It’s enormously inefficient and might add a full month to your turnover time. I will admit, however, that I simply couldn’t resist.”

“Do you remember your friend Cara?”

Benway punched in a few quick keystrokes. A red light above one of the steel doors flickered on as the door slid open. A short loud buzz accompanied the sound of another door clanking open.

“She’s not Cara anymore.”

It took Sara a few moments to recognize the thing that bounced and flounced through the door. Cara’s long black hair had all been shaved off. The stark clinical light illuminated a naked, glistening scalp. Even her eyebrows had been stripped away, replaced by thin painted lines. A few wires ran from a steel neck shackle to white pads attached to her naked head. Red lights on the collar blinked off and on and off. Glazed eyes shifted between Benway and her ceaselessly working lips. All of her actions seemed timed, regulated by the clock of smacking lips and flickering tongue. The mouth dripped with gloss and slobber, working a phallic pacifier. That tongue flicked and swished around and around and around, writing and rewriting the hieroglyphs of some intricately meaningless private language.

Pink latex blended with the flesh beneath the collar. Pear breasts skewered by 10 gauge captive beads dangled out of the catsuit. Cara thrust them forward and jiggled them with a shoulder shake every time her tongue completed a particularly ornate curlicue. Her covered crotch bucked back and forth and back toward Benway in abject supplication.

Sara absorbed the black block letters tattooed along her friend’s thigh: Oral Fixation 34.

“Cute specimen. I see she’s been exercised well, at least. I’ll assume that she’s one of the suck machines?”

“I’m a suck machine. I want to taste it. I want something else inside,” OF-34 slurbled, popping the pacifier out of the hole. She tittered through her extended tongue. She put her hands on her thighs, leaned forward, and shook her pierced tits, staring ravenously at Benway. “I need to taste it.”

Sara choked, unable to look away. She had expected something monstrous, but seeing Cara, bold and independent Cara, burned out and replaced with this Stepford bimbo made something inside of her snap.

“Can you shut her up?”

“Of course.”

Benway produced a remote control from his lab coat and clicked it in OF-34’s direction. She sank into kneeling bliss, cooing and gurgling fading, as her half-lidded eyes fell shut.

“That’s a nice machine you have there.”

“Thank you. She’s really the best product yet. We expected her to hold out longer, given some elements of the profile. Still, we had some positive indicators. Most OF units had body image issues. I’m not sure that Cara was compulsive, but she was certainly strict with her diet. You might say that she’s on a permanent binge now.”

“She’s certainly going to be quite an earner. Just put her next to the pissers in the facility. Wire her up to a credit card machine and rent out that hole by the minute.”

“I leave the business details to you, as always.”

“Yes, yes. Pure science and all that. I suppose you’ll want to bore me with some blather about her training?”

“It’s your decision.”

“Quick precis. And please keep it comprehensible. Your demands on my attention span never cease to amaze me.”

“Yes...We produced the OF line with some fairly minor variations on the classic sensory deprivation and reconditioning programs. Instead of hooking the subject up to an IV, food, water, adn all other rewards are linked to a single behavior. Food, companionship, and a mild narcotic all flow throught the feeder.”

Marlene tugged at a lock of her long black hair and lit another cigarette.

“We de-emphasize negative reinforcement fairly quickly; deprivation of positive reinforcement is far more effective. Unlike the other units, who are subjected to radical temporal disorientation, we display the time to OFs. It reinforces their dependence on determinate reward schedules. Of course, we vary the clock speed to maintain some degree of disortientation.”

“After we’ve established an initial assocation, we proceed to add new subroutines. Essentially, an OF needs to jump through more hoops and run more complicated mazes as her training progresses.”

“Reward is eventually linked to maintaing a theta brain state as well. The machine constantly monitors to make sure she doesn’t resurface to alpha.”

Benway strode over to Sara and half-patted, half-slapped her tear-stained cheek.

“Did you hear that, fucktoy? You get to dream all the time. Soon, you won’t have to worry about anything at all. You just get to drift off and consume.”

“Do you like that? Do you like seeing your friend for what she is—a tiny brain stem and a mouth with some flesh attached?”

Sara tried to shake her head. Benway slapped her, hard, and stepped back, wiping the moisture onto his lab coat.

Marlene ashed and chuckled.

“Most of her uniform is just for aesthetic appeal. Even the control collar shouldn’t be absolutely necessary by now.”

“Oh, I think it’s cute. It’s a nice touch, reminds Princess over here that her friend is just a vibrator now,” Marlene snorted.

“Actually, I think we can remind her of that a bit more directly.”

Benway withdrew his remote control and activated OF-34. He beckoned, and she knee-walked over. The doctor dangled fingers in front of the wet hole, and smiled as OF-34 relieved her mouth with his offering. Her fingers tugged and twisted her nipple rings.

“We’ve installed a training routine that you might particularly appreciate. 34 prefers a stiff cock, but she’s quite willing to pleasure a clit as well, if Owner asks.”

Benway removed his fingers from OF-34’s rapt attention. He quickly undid the clamps attached to Sara’s agonized cunt. Placing fingertips on OF-34’s scalp, he steered her mumbling face toward Sara’s spread legs. The suck machine settled into place before Sara’s chair, bubblegum gloves sliding up captured thighs. Sara shivered at the touch, praying wildly for that alien face to go away. Cara looked up as she nuzzled.

“I see you. I see you before.”

“You don’t need to remember anything, 34.”

“I don’t need to remember anything.”

“That’s just another cumrag like you.”

“Cumrag like me.”

“I’m surprised she remembered that much.”

“Well, control therapy isn’t a lobotomy, per se. Her brain’s washed, but it is still there.”

“Brain all washed now! Good girl brain.”

Sara caught a glimpse of a vapid cheerleader grin before the smooth hairless head dived into her crotch.

No girl had ever touched her there before. She had certainly never felt anything like she felt now, as Cara or fucktoy or 34 lapped and licked, gentle and firm, drawing lines and circles and figure eights. Drool drip drops ran off Cara’s lips down Sara’s lips to settle around the backs of her thighs. Sara’s mind screamed as this obscenity in her friend’s body labored away, stroking and burbling bubbly nonsense into her moistening cunt. Her body couldn’t help but react. Her cunt started to melt and flow, runoff spilling onto Cara’s bobbing chin.

“Is that going to break her? The blonde bim, that is, not the bald one.”

“No. Breaking is a long process. The sort of autmoatic brain-stem obedience you require never happens instantaneously.”

“Why’d you wind that one up and put her at the whiny one?”

“You asked for a demonstration. Also, it amuses me. I take pleasure as well as pride in my work. That’s why my employment history is a bit...checkered.”

“It’s also the reason one of the reasons I’ve arranged the next demonstration. You’ll love this, Sara.”

Sara was unsuccessfully trying to choke herself with her own tongue. She’d do anything to stop her sellout cunt from endorsing this loathsome product with an orgasm.

“Marlene, I’m sure you’ll appreciate this as well. An OF unit’s conditioning is quite thorough, but it renders her useless for other applications. Positive reinforcement linked to a single act concentrates the mind wonderfully, but it concentrates it to almost nothing. OFs are quite useful. We’ll always have a few dozen units in production. Ultimately, however, it should be more efficient to produce slightly higher functioning, fully programmable units, who can be adjusted in response to market demands.”

Benway bent over the keyboard again, timing the clicking of the keys to the loud slurp of OF-34’s clockwork tongue.

“The techniques used to produce this unit aren’t terribly complicated, but they are more subtle than an OF or Statue’s training program. The effect on a subject’s mind is somewhat more insidious.”

“Virgin-Whore Units go through the same initial training. Unlike the others, however, they have a sort of choice. A VW unit can atrophy in the dark, subsisting off the IV, or she can choose to be stimulated by the machine.”

“Of the ten VW prototypes we’ve worked on thus far, only one has opted for truly sustained deprivation. Her mind dissolved after 43 days. Currently, we’re attempting to revamp her into an OF unit. If she proves too far gone for that, we’ll just use negative reinforcement to train her to stand still and hallucinate.”

“I suppose that we can always use her as furniture or stick her in a display case.” Marlene shrugged.

“Precisely. In any case, the voluntary stimulation triggers a set of scripted voice playbacks. The messages are broadcast both inside teh room and inside a set of implants. We use my voice, the voice of known authority figures, particularly father figures, and, ultimately, a synthetic reproduction of the subject’s own voice as well. We’ve relied heavily on the smuggled MK-ULTRA files for those scripts.”

Benway stepped back from the keyboard, and doors hissed and clanked again.

Sara fought to still the spasm building inside her.

“Familiar voices, plausible admonishments, and the constnat illusion of degradation freely chosen conspire to trap the subject in a double-bind of shame and desire tighter than any cuff or knot.”

A high pitched titter from the hallway punctuated Benway’s remarks.

“The beauty of VW manufacture, of course, is that the culture has already provided the scaffolding. There are, after all, genuine nymphomaniacs. We just simulate and intensify a naturally occuring process.”

Sara lost her battle with OF-34’s invading tongue and fingers.

OF-34 looked up, dribbling mouth still open.

“You came hard, so I get to suck cock later,” she chirped cheerily. Nipple steel and latex tickled damp inner thigh as OF-34 partially straightened. After a few moments, she dived in again. Sara received a clear view of the animal crawling through the doorway.

“Stand up so we can see you, whore.”

“Yes, daddy.”

“That’s a good girl.”

“Stand up and turn toward your sister.”

An aftershock rippled through Sara. She tried to roll her eyes back into her head, but the lights hurt too much. She couldn’t take the pain. She had to watch. She had to watch her make sister pull herself off the floor. She had to watch as Amy placed her hands atop her head. She had to stare at the obscene graffiti scrawled permanently into little sister. Insults and arrows covered her face, the flesh around her silvery shock collar, her small upturned breasts, and the space around her freshly shaved cuntmeat. Heavy black mascara and curling lines of kohl complemented thick purplish bruise lipstick.

Sara had to watch her sister dreamily rotate her hips. She couldn’t figure out which would be worse: a glimmer of recognition in those glazed eyes, or just pure OF vacuum.

“Would you like to talk to your sister now, VW-9?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“She likes what the robot is doing to her clit now, doesn’t she?”

“She does. She should be grateful. Only Masters deserve that pleasure.”

Marlene cleared her throat. “What about Mistresses?”

Amy just looked lost.

“Of course, not all aspects of the training have been completed yet; we’ve just laid the foundations,” Benway interjected quickly. “Programming in bisexuality at the appropriate time shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Proceed.”

“Of course. Whore, why don’t you tell your sister about the writing on your body?”

“I want to tell her all about it, Daddy. I love it! The words tell me what to think and what I am, so I’m not confused anymore. Look, Sara. It says Cumrag here on my...what’s the word, Daddy?”

“Thigh.”

“Ohhhhh...thigh. I don’t remember so good anymore, but that’s OK. See, it says right here on my other leg that I’m a Stupid Slut. Here on my tits, it says Blow Up Doll. Let me turn around so you can see my serial number. See it? Isn’t it cool? It’s like that butterfly that Jenny got, but it’s better!”

She giggled as she thrust her ass in her sister’s direction.

Sara looked fixedly at Cara, determiend to concentrate on the horror she had already absorbed a bit, instead of this fresh abomination. She had never been particularly close to her sister, considering her a bit clingy and dependent. This was something else, though. She wanted to shake Amy, slap her, bring her out of it. Instead, she could only sit and listen to her mindless gibbering and 34’s mindless slurble burble lick. That licking drove her dangerously close to her second peak.

“It feels good to be a slave now. I don’t have to worry about anything. Don’t look so sad, Sara. You’ve been sick for a long time. I was sick too. I tried to think and it made me feel bad. Dr. Benway is a good daddy and a good doctor. He made me better, so I can let men think for me, and not worry about things. I can think about serving and pleasing and making men hard and cooking and cleaning. Those are good—”

“Stop.”

“Benway, where did this shit come from? What the fuck is she talking about?”

Sara glanced hopefully in Marlene’s direction. Maybe there was some slight hope after all. She wasn’t stupid enough (yet) to think that she’d be freed. She hoped, though, that this women could possibly do something else, cancel the experiments and kill her quickly, perhaps.

“Benway, something’s wrong here. My instructions did not include pure cock worship. In fact, it was excluded categorically. I’m going to talk to cumrag now.”

Benway nodded once.

“Cumrag, you can talk to the nice lady over there bfore you start playing with your sister again.”

“Hi, nice lady.”

“Hi, you stupid slut. Tell me what you said about women, nice and slow so you don’t get confused.”

Cumrag stepped close to Marlene’s chair in the corner, standing before her with her shoulders back and pelvis thrust forward. She stepped forward again, her knees almost touching Marlene’s.

“I said that women are good for serving and breeding. Cunts like to cook and clean and fuck and do, oh, just anything to please. I like watching the pretty girls dancing on TV. Daddy lets me look at magazines too. I like the pictures! The words—”

“Do you know who I am?”

Cumrag fell silent for a moment.

“I’m a woman, aren’t I?”

“I think so, but I can’t see your cuntmeat and you don’t have pretty marks like my pretty—”

“Shut up! I own you. I literally own you, jus tlike I own this hack over here. I own every piece of equipment here. I own your stupid magazines and whatever fucking retarded movie you watched.”

“I will repeat. Do you know who I am?”

“You’re a blow up doll. You just don’t know it yet.”

Marlene’s hands were already inside the pockets of her leather coat. The steel circlets hidden in her chair’s armrests clacked together, capturing only air. Her legs weren’t quite as fast, though. Metal bands slid over her boots and grey designer slacks.

She withdrew a small mobile, and barked “help!” With her right hand, she pulled out a small, nasty Glock G26. Dropping the mobile into her lap, she flicked off the safety, steadied her grip, and snarled.

“You’re an idiot, Benway. You’re a dead idiot. The only reason i haven’t already pulled the trigger is so that I can tie you down, and have your assistants lobotomize you. You can chug cum and play with Britney Spears coloring books when we’re done with you, you impotent little wanker.”

“I love Britney!”

Benway remained impassive.

“Do you know what might happen if I press, say, this button?” He toyed with the remote.

“I suppose that the five bodyguards outside this door will kill you when they burst in, which should be presently.”

“I don’t see them.”

Seconds passed.

“Perhaps you should pull the trigger, Marlene.”

Marlene glanced nervously toward the door and muttered “Safer just to kill you.”

She pulled the trigger.

The Glock clicked.

Sara sagged.

“Who loaded that gun for you, Marlene? Did a servant, a bodyguard, load it for you?”

“Where are your guards, Marlene?”

A rough voice, faint but audible, crackled over the mobile.

“It’s going to be a pleasure shooting my load over your back, you fucking bitch.”

Benway smiled as the phone squawked out a stream of promises, outlining blasphemous violations in crude detail.

“You see, Marlene, it’s difficult to buy loyalty when we can ultimately access all of your accounts.”

Marlene blanched.

“You’ll never get them if you destroy my mind. This cunt,” Marlene spat, jerking her gun toward Amy, “probably can’t remember her phone number.”

“Numbers are hard!”

“You’re correct. Your accountants and lawyers were just as obliging as your bodyguards, however. You don’t inspire much love, Marlene, and besides, a promise to process an ex-wife is always a powerful incentive. You’ll still be able to sign your name, and that’s all we really need from you at this point.”

“Aside from domestic duties, of course.”

Growling, Marlene lunged for her own eyes with her claws. Benway pressed a button and immobilizing shock rendered even this last gesture futile. As she flopped in her own waste, Benway lifted her weakly flapping arms.

“Don’t worry, cunt. I’ll take good care of you now.”

The restraints opened again. Benway lowered her arms into place.

“You’ll be the first of a new model, the Monarch.”

The restraints snicked shut.

“You’ll still be able to indulge your penchant for sadism, M1. Have you ever heard the expression ‘Barbie With a Whip?’”

Chapter Five: “You are addicted to your addiction.”

My name is Jennifer Lorber, and I am going crazy.

I don’t know why I’m writing this. Dr. Jensen said that I should. I can’t trust Dr. Jensen, though. I see him looking at my body. I see him looking at me as I sit in that cheap tan leatherette chair. I can’t see him getting hard when I tell him about my dreams, but I can hear him breathing hard when I describe those latex androids and their chants.

I don’t wear underwear to my sessions anymore. I really don’t. I just lean back and rub my thighs together and open and close my legs, and let my voice babble on. I tell Dr. Jensen about my chants, and he makes me say them again. He always makes me repeat them. I dreamt last night that I fully lost control in one session. I got caught in one mantra and spent fifty minutes repeating and stroking and fingering and repeating again.

Dr. Jensen said I should write everything down, so that we can look at my thoughts and organize them. There are some things I can’t write down, though. If I do, I’ll look back at them and read them and start to go back into that loop again. I’m barely able to snap out of those spirals right now. I start thinking about my dreams, then I have them again, even when I’m awake.

Maybe if I send them to you, you can help me.

I don’t know who puts these fantasies inside my head. I thought for a while that it might be my computer. You see, I had tried to start researching. I wanted to figure out these dreams of Sara and Cara and bimbos and Benway. I thought that some research might explain what’s happening to me. I just wanted information. I wanted to find out about other girls that feel the way I do. After a while, though, I started spacing off. When I came back, I would realize that I had been reading the same sentence over and over. Sometimes I’d have a finger inside myself. Sometimes it’d be two.

I know I should begin at the beginning. I wrote some stories before this started happenning to me. I even had a few published. Nothing serious, no Pulitzer in my future. Still, I know something about plotting and pacing, about how to structure a story. I can’t write stories anymore. I can barely do my job.

My name is Jennifer Lorber, and I am going crazy.

The real problem, though, is that i don’t really know where the beginning is. Not anymore. Sometimes, when I dream, I dream about the past. Every time, I see Benway there.

Last night, I dreamt about the beginning of high school. I dreamt about myself in math class, staring at the clock and listening to the teacher’s voice droning away. I looked down from the clock, and benway was in front of me. He was lecturing for the class, his voice boring into my skull. He was repeating my chants. A bleached blonde in a tight plaid skirt wrote them down on the chalkboard as he spoke. I guess they were lessons. All the girls in my class would repeat them too. They all had a hand up their skirt, and a finger in their mouth. I did too. I wanted to run, stand and bolt out the classroom door. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t stop chanting or touching or dripping onto my desk. It was one of those dreams.

My pillow and sheets were soaked when I woke up. My first alarm was ringing. I have five alarms now. I need them, because I always want to go back to sleep. I’m always a slave in my dreams, further and further back as Benway slips deeper and deeper into my memory.

I feel tired now. I can hear a clock ticking, and a truck shifting on the highway. It’s hard for me to write, because I keep getting distracted. I’ll start to write a sentence, then I’ll forget what I was writing about, so I’ll have to read what I wrote to see what I’m doing. Then I’ll keep reading and rereading.

I just read the words “slave in my dreams” for at least five minutes.

Go back to sleep. I always want to go back to sleep. A slave in my dreams. Further and further back. Deeper into my memory.

I need to write very fast, and maybe without thinking about it too much, or I won’t be able to write anything at all.

I was thinking about beginnings, and trying to remember. I don’t know when it started, but a good thing to remember and think about is the collage. The collage meant that I couldn’t have friends or anyone I really knew over anymore. I think it started a month or two ago. It started out as a nice little collage about my computer at home. I taped a few pictures of some girls and some products, make-up and dresses and stuff, to the wall behind my computer. I didn’t think about it too much. In junior high, I used to make lots of collages. Me and my friends would put them up in our lockers, and give them to each other as gifts. BFF, boys, shopping, first kiss, stuff like that. I didn’t think too much about it when I started. It just seemed nostalgic. Over the next few days or weeks, I kept adding pictures to it. I kept scissors, tape, and a stack of magazines by the computer. I spent an hour or two every day snipping and taping. I certainly felt that it was odd, but I didn’t want to stop. Snipping out models and lip gloss ads, high heels, fake fur, summer skirts, sassy little snippets of text, made me feel like a young girl again. I just sat there for hours, dreaming and listening to the scissors going click clack click.

After the circle was about a foor in every direction, the pictures began to change. The old pictures stayed the same, of course. I hadn’t started to hallucinate. It was the new pictures that were different. Before, I had just cut up fashion magazines. Now I started cutting up lingerie catalogues. I spent days building a circle of underwire, push up, demicup, silk and nylon, teddy, chemise, jacqui, seamless, embroidered, babydoll, scraps of paper and flesh and fabric.

I realized that I couldn’t have friends over anymore. The collage was about three feet around now. I could see little patterns in it, spiderweb lines and conch spirals of lips, hips, silk and lace. I saw all the patterns, leanign back in my office chair and staring, with my legs spread, until i felt the need to get up and change something, some detail, add another scarlet mouth or scarlet frill to the mix.

I knew that my friends would make me take it down. I didn’t want to. I had spent too long on it. It was too beautiful.

I let the new boys coming into my apartment see it; sometimes they helped me stick the pictures on the walls. I let some of them bring me magazines filled with cheap, trashy girls, with spread legs and full lips and full mouths. Sometimes they would toss the magazines in the corner when they walked in, dumping them in a corner before unzipping and using me. One boy liked to read the magazines as he used me, resting them on my head or the small of my back. The spiderweb had filled the whole wall now, spilling onto surrounding surfaces, creeping over floor and ceiling.

I worked naked, under a red bulb, standing on a loadder to glue my scraps of paper to the ceiling. I never bothered to shut the curtains, but my neighbors never complained. One of them came over to tell me about it, but he certainly wasn’t complaining. He wasn’t complaining when he walked in, and he wasn’t complaining when he walked out, his load still dripping down my chin. He came back later, with a few friends. One of his friends liked to take pictures. He would click click click pictures of me. He made me pose. I looked like the girls in my collage, like a porn star, a model, a whore, a French maid, a schoolgirl, a slave. He left the pictures for me; a new set of images start to grow across my room.

My collage spread past the computer room. I filled a full wall with pictures of my meat. Shards of mirror glass and strips of used underwear started to imbricate themselves into the design.

I stopped worrying about my boring friends. They never really called anymore. Once, my friend Cara showed up. I had forgotten to lock the door, so she found me inside my computer room, dressed in my maid’s unfirom, staring at the wall, and masturbating again. She walked out and didn’t call me again. She must have told my other friends, because they kept calling as well.

I didn’t really worry about my old friends. I had lots of new friends, who called all the time. I just left the phone on speakerphone, so that I could keep staring and touching myself when I talked. Sometimes, one boy would call while another boy was using me. I would just turn up the speakerphone so that they could all listen. One of them must have recorded my voice, because he actually made music and records and all just for me. They had lots of different trance beats, and my own voice saying things again and again.

My work started to suffer. I would call in sick all the time, because I was still being used, or just because I wanted to put in one of my CDs and stare at the walls. When I did make it to work, I would just stare. I couldn’t focus. I still can’t. I listen to my fingers tapping against my laptop, and the trucks going by, and my watch ticking, and I want to dream. I miss my walls. I promised myself that I wouldn’t listen to my CDs, but I can see my discman on that cheap little motel desk. It couldn’t hurt just this once.

Dr.Jensen said that I might be depressed, and gave me some pills. The green and whites make me happy, but they don’t make me work any harder. They just make me all spacy. I can’t really keep track of when I take them, so I just eat them whenever I stop tingling. I call them smilies.

I knew that I couldn’t look at my walls anymore. I took my laptop, my discman, my CDs, my passport, some nice clothing, shoes, and checked into this hotel. The man at the desk helped me hook up my computer. I think he liked my outfit. He said that when he was done, he would come back, and we would have a party. I don’t know if he came back. I think maybe a man came back when I was doing my chants, but that might have been a dream.

I still go in to see Dr. Jensen, but that’s almost all I can remember to do. I wrote this journal, and maybe I can send it somewhere. Maybe someone can help me. My voice says that I’m addicted to my addiction, addicted to sinking deeper, addicted to being a good girl. I know something’s wrong, and maybe if I send this off, someone will help me. I can’t remember when I last went to work. I don’t know if I’m paying rent at my apartment anymore. I just sleep and dream and listen. Sometimes I walk around outside, but it doesn’t help. All the signs tell me to be a good girl, show me pretty pictures like the ones on my wall. The signs tell me to “stimulate” and “give way.” The billboard girls look like me, legs and midriffs flashing and breasts straining out, dazed smiles on our faces, inviting the whole world to come and use our flesh.

The clack clack of the subway was enough to put me under once. When I woke up, the whole car was staring dumbfounded. I don’t know what I was doing there, but I have a guess.

I don’t know if I’ll be writing another story for while. My CD just whispered something to me, something new and important, in my own voice. It told me, or I told me, that if I go back through, putting the numbers in my journal together right, I can have Benway’s number. I need to call. I see the red light on my telephone flashing. I’m going to send this to you, then call that number. Then I’ll lie back, listen to my voice, spread my legs, and wait for Benway.