The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Madeleine:

As I drove past, the lights along the road blinked forlornly. The days just seemed to fly by, an endless procession of classes and studying and shepherding confused undergraduates. I stared down the road pointedly.

And another dinner with Tom, both of us a little stressed. At least he hadn’t cried this time. Jesus, at least I didn’t cry this time.

So life wasn’t the glamorous bounce-a-thon of fun I had kind of expected when I was younger. I mean, sure, how naive of me. But I remember graduating high school (god, ten years ago?), and having it all planned out, all hopeful of the future. I’d become less shy, less awkwardly crabby around people, maybe change my style.

And then as I grew into my profession I’d meet some cute mathematician or something—wealthy, hah, why not? And hopelessly literate too, with nice eyes—and then trips to France—showing him off to my impressed parents, my jealous younger sister—even my brothers would grudgingly concede their support. And then we’d win the Nobel Prize and watch Wes Anderson films on the couch.

I mean, it didn’t have to be exactly like that. But at least in the same direction. And surely more than just becoming more disheveled as I got older. At least Tom was nice. Could banter.

I was gloomy, but I always felt a little off at night. After I got some sleep I’d feel much better in the morning.

Professor Rogers:

Allow me to describe the scene for you when Madeleine walked through the door. Her roommate, Sarah, was sitting on the couch, as at ease and calm as if she was asleep, the golden glow from the Infinity Device falling on her. It was quiet in this neighborhood on a weeknight, and Madeleine certainly wasn’t expecting to find me—her physics advisor—in her home, her roommate sitting placidly on the couch. And, of course, I wasn’t expecting to see her either.

The door closed, and Madeleine looked utterly flabbergasted.

“Madeleine,” I said easily, “you’re home early.”

She stood there.

“Uh, Professor Rogers,” she said. “What um. What the hell is going on.”

She was pretty nervous, but I was entirely at ease in the change of development. I enjoyed situations like these. I watched Madeleine as she slowly notice that Sarah looked different than she usually did. Not only was she in a brilliant gold-colored dress that fit her like a glove—but it was rather fetching too—something that complimented her compact frame perfectly. Which was particularly notable considering Sarah had always been a little pudgy. In fact, I’m not sure she had ever worn a dress at all.

I watched Madeleine’s mouth drop open and then close uselessly. She was a decent-enough scientist. I always enjoyed watching my subjects try to logically think things through.

“I don’t understand,” she said at last.

I smiled. “It’s this machine,” I said, indicating the Infinity Device. “It can alter reality. Would you like a demonstration?”

She didn’t say anything, but I could see her mind racing—I had always been such a polite and friendly professor. Even now, calm and collected. It was confusing her emergency response. Too bad, because this was her last chance.

“Allow me to show you an indirect result.”

I turned up the power on the projector, and the golden light on Sarah became stronger. She stiffened, became a little more alert.

“Sarah, dear,” I said, “your preferred name is Anastasia.”

Sarah scrunched her face in confusion.

“My… my preferred name…?”

“Your preferred name is Anastasia.”

“My preferred… name… is… S-s-sar—“

“No. Your preferred name is Anastasia.”

“My preferred name is... Anast… Anastasia?”

“Yes. Your preferred name is Anastasia.”

“Oh. My preferred n-name is… … Anastasia…”

“You love being called Anastasia.”

She was sweating and her chest was heaving in confusion. Madeleine was watching with an inscrutable look.

“I l-love… being called Anastasia...”

“You think it makes you sound exotic.”

“I… I… I think it make me sound… exotic….”

“Yes. You think it makes you sound exotic.”

“I... think it makes me sound exotic.”

“Madeleine calls you Anastasia,” I said, glancing over at Madeleine. She brought her hands to her temples and rubbed them. She frowned deeply.

“Madeleine calls me Anastasia,” Anastasia said.

“She’s called you that name for years.”

“… years.”

“It’s completely natural for Madeleine to call you Anastasia.” Things were getting faster now.

“… completely natural.”

“You’re not really a Sarah sort of person.”

With relief: “I’m not really a Sarah sort of person.”

Madeleine:

This was like something out a nightmare. Professor Rogers had become totally unhinged and had drugged Anna.

“An… Anastasia,” I said nervously. “What’s going on?” She didn’t respond. My mind blared a warning—I had used that name! But it wasn’t a visceral alarm, just an intellectual noting —I mean, hadn’t I… always called her Anastasia?

“So is her name really Anastasia?” Rogers asked me.

My heart started beating faster. I had always called her Anastasia —everyone did—she was just that sort of person who wanted to reconnect to tenuous Russian roots—anything to be a little more exotic than the Midwestern-sounding Sarah. And maybe with other people there would be an eye-roll—but she was so earnest about it that...

But on more important level—hadn’t I called her Sarah until just recently?

“God,” I whispered, “it sounds so natural now, Anastasia—but I remember that I always called her, call her, Sar… Sarah.” I shook my head again. “I have to get out of here. This just doesn’t make any sense.”

I froze as Rogers snapped the device on again, this time its glow falling on me. It was like an old fashioned projector, with dusty light shining out of it, and I could feel it. It was a little like having an electric current running through you—and the world all of a sudden felt strangely lucid and vivid, as if I was seeing reality, seeing the moment, with total clarity for the first time. It felt like anything was possible. My heart sank in unspecified dread.

This was all impossible, I thought to myself. We must have been drugged. God, I would never, not in a million years, have thought kind-hearted, fatherly Professor Rogers to be the psycho-murderer sort. I giggled in spite of myself. This was all so ludicrous.

“I have no idea what’s going on,” I said.

“It’s easy,” he said calmly, sounding just like a professor, writing something down on a clipboard he had picked up from a chair, “as I explain things to you, they start to alter reality. For instance… You’re not going to physically resist these alterations.”

Hah. Fat chance, I thought. I was sure as hell going to resist whatever he was going to do to me. There was a gun in the cabinet. My father gave it to me when my mother wasn’t looking. But then the words started coming out unbidden.

“I’m not going to…” I said, and I had a moment of panic. It felt like the words were bubbling out from some deep, vital place. I had a moment of panic. “But I am going to resist!”

“You’re not going to physically resist these alterations.”

“I’m not going to physically… but I AM!” I said, frustrated. What was going on? It felt like waves of truth were washing over me. Was I really not going to resist? Just like that? As easy as ordering around Siri?

“Interesting, Madeline,” Rogers said appreciatively. “Attempting resistance. Good for you, go on and get it out of your system. … You’re not going to physically resist these alterations.”

“No, I’m n-not… I’m not g-going to physically resist these… a-alterations…” I said meekly, and I knew it was true. I knew it in the same way you knew you should wake up early, but knew with absolute certainty that you weren’t.

“Gosh.” I said, stunned. He smiled and stretched. He had been tense all this time, I hadn’t realized. Should I make a break for it? I looked at the door. Nope, I realized. I wouldn’t. What the fucking hell.

I looked around. Everything still felt so real, with the golden light on me. Tiny dust particles drifted through the beam. Anastasia was lounging calmly on the sofa, still unresponsive. I thought about yelling for help, but when I opened my mouth, I couldn’t make noise—was that resisting physically? and instead of just letting my mouth hang open stupidly, I said:

“Um, so are you going to lobotomize me like Anastasia?”

“Oh, she’s not lobotomized. I just wanted her a little more placid for a while. I’m sure you understand.”

“Actually, I really don’t. None of this should be possible!” I felt like I was near tears. “And you should know! I’m taking your class where you tell us exactly why this can’t ever happen!”

Maybe I could distract him. He smiled wider.

“Are you ready to start? I think we should begin making some changes. Your name isn’t Madeleine.”

“What?! My m-m-my name…”

“Your name isn’t Madeleine.”

Jesus Christ. Of course my name was Madeleine. “My name is MADELEINE.”

“No, it’s not. Your name isn’t Madeleine.”

“My name… isn’t…?” I whispered confused. I could feel reality shifting. How did I even know what that felt like, to have reality shift? God. Like something you didn’t have to have explained. My name Madel… Madeleine. My grandmother’s name.

Rogers was watching me curiously, and then turned a dial on the device, and the beam grew brighter and the projector began making soft clacks.

“Your name isn’t Madeleine.”

“My name… isn’t Madeleine,” I said limply, and I knew it was true. That wasn’t my name. It was true, the same way Bobbi and Rapunzel and Obama wasn’t my name. Madeleine as a name of other people.

“You have no memory of that name.”

“I… I… God…” I started shaking a little.

“You have no memory of that name.”

“I… no… I… of c-course I…”

“You have no memory of that name.”

“I have no memory of that name.” I had no name.

“You have no memory of that name.”

“I… I have n-no memory of that name.”

I raced through my mind. I had to find an instance where my mother had said my name—or filling out a form—a memory of a birthday song —but I couldn’t find a single memory of my name—not one!—I might as well have been called Robert or Guinevere or Chair. I flushed for no reason. How embarrassing. I noticed Rogers had an erection.

“I… I…” I stammered, flabbergasted. I wasn’t usually so speechless. I had always hoped I’d be the quipping sort when the chips were down, like James Bond. Of course, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I imagined that I would be in dangerous situations. And I doubt I’d be able to escape in this scenario. My heart plunged at the extent of the changes he could do. And I might never know.

“Your name is Annika,” he said, with a gleam in his eye.

I felt a flush of relief. I had remembered my name. I was Annika. Of course.

“I’m Annika,” I said with enormous relief. My mother had called me that. Annika was on my birth certificate. My passport. Anastasia and Annika, the two As.

“Everyone calls you Annika.”

“Everyone calls you Annika.”

“You have always liked your name.”

“I have always liked my name.” These ones were already true. It was a staggering relief—God, I hated forgetting my name. And I had such a nice name, too; I remembered doodling little ANNIKAs in middle school, big cursive A’s, or admiring it idly when it’d show up in newspapers. Annika Draper, winning the middle school science fair…

I would fight harder next time. How could I forget my own name? What did one have, if not a name?

“In fact, it’s kind of a sexy name for you. Everyone thinks so. You told me that yesterday.”

Sexy name? Told him… yesterday? My brain was trying to process what he was…

“You told me that yesterday, remember?”

“I… uh…”

“You told me that yesterday.”

“I told you that yesterday,” I said confused. I thought back to it, disoriented. He had complimented me on my name—this was at the end of an office hours meeting yesterday—an eternity ago—and I had smiled with satisfaction at the compliment and told him how everyone seemed to think it was kind of a sexy name. And then I had blushed, because that was a totally weird and inappropriate and not even true thing to say.

“It’s a sexy name for you,” he repeated, “everyone thinks so.” Was his erection bigger? Fucking weirdo.

“It’s… a… s-s—…” I started unsure.

“It’s a sexy name for you,” he said.

“It’s a… sexy?... name for me?” I said. I mean, I don’t know if that was true-true—I didn’t really think so—but certainly people had intimated that to me. Tom once said it was one of his favorite things about me—he was blushing—that it aroused him to have a girlfriend called Annika, that I was called Annika. And people seemed to use my name a lot.

“It’s a sexy name for you.”

“Yes,” I said, “it’s a sexy name for me.” I mean, I had always thought that, kind of cute and with unusual letter combinations. Sometimes I announced myself in the third person to Tom, and I could tell it made him squirm a little. Aaannika’s here.

“Everyone thinks so.”

I frowned. Why was he saying the obvious? I felt like I was missing something, but my brain was having trouble figuring it out… I remember when I was eleven, and I asked my father why I was named Annika. He’s an engineer—a whole family of nerds, mine—with big glasses and a friendly paunch and he blushed and started stuttering. “I-I-I just thought that Annika” and he said the name with big, whooshing, enunciation, AH-ni-ka, “would be a beautiful name for a girl.”

And my younger brothers would beat up anyone who even said my name in their presence, like it was indecent of anyone to even use it. And my genius little sister, Laura, once confided to me that she wished she had a “thrilling” name like I did, and not something so earth-shatteringly normal. Privately, I agreed. I mean, Laura?

“Yes, everyone thinks so,” I confirmed. I shivered and I wasn’t sure why. Rogers rubbed his hands under his shirt lightly, running his fingers around the edge of his naval. Rogers smiled happily, and moved his hand down and started rhythmically applying pressure to his pants. I glanced at the projector and he turned it off, and I gave a sigh of relief. I was panting a little.

“Um,” I said, “I’m obviously not going to fight you or anything. Don’t I get any exposition or anything? Are you an alien or what?” I shifted worriedly. I could only guess at what could come next. Sexual slavery. A lifetime imagining I had hands coming out of my eyeballs.

“Let’s talk about you, Annika,” he said. I had the usual thrill at my name—my best feature, unfortunately. How wonderful it was to have it back. “How was your day today?”

Thank god the device was off. Maybe it was out of power.

“Um, it was good,” I said, breathing heavily, head throbbing, mind racing, “I worked on my dissertation—which I’ve guess you’ve read most off—TA’d my class—got dinner with Tom. So yeah, good.” I had to keep talking. “Um, how was yours?”

“You know, it’s been improving, Annika,” his hand was under his pants now, the button of his jeans open, hands under his underwear… gross.

“Look, is there any way we could, I dunno, not do this…?”

“You’re almost pretty,” he said offhandedly, looking me over. “Although you’re a little overweight. Skin’s not great. On the short side. Intelligent eyes. How old are you? Twenty-eight?”

“Ah, fuck you,” I said. None of this could be real.

“Would you like to see some physical change?” he asked. “They’re every bit as effective as the mental ones.”

“Not particularly.”

“Are you sure? We could do anything you wanted. Haven’t you ever wanted to change yourself? Surely you don’t want me picking traits. Who knows what horrible predilections I have.”

He leered at me. I had never seen anything like it, so completely lecherous, open, unbounded by social norms, and I shivered.

But I thought about it. I had been thinking about it since I saw Anastasia, hadn’t I? I could be tall and thin. Be confident in a bikini. Bench two hundred pounds. Screw that—I could become the best chess or piano player in the world, a brilliant author, immortal.

Or he could just as soon hear that and make me fat and short, some dwarf who could only eat cabbage, who knew.

“I don’t think you’d give me any choice,” I said honestly.

“Ah, quite right,” he said. “At least, not at this stage.” He sighed wistfully, and he looked almost regretful. “You always were a wonderful student, Annika. You would’ve made a good physicist. Maybe even—who knows?—a great one.” He rummaged through my purse and pulled out my driver’s license and read off it. “Annika Draper, 27, 145 pounds, five foot three, brown hair.” He flung it at me, and it landed in my lap. “Why don’t you keep an eye on that. You’ll find that reality changes—all of it—permanently. It’s really rather grand.”

He flipped on the projector, and that funny feeling came over me again. Into reality, here we go. I braced myself.

“You’re nineteen years old,” he said.

“I’m…” what the hell? “nineteen years old.” I couldn’t stop the words coming out of my mouth. They slid out. They just—came, like I was reciting divine inspiration.

My brain raced. Maybe there was a way to scientific method this shit. Some cumulative error I could exploit. Something he missed. I imagined kicking the projector onto him, turning him into a cockroach with cancer. But I knew I couldn’t resist this sort of thing, even if an opportunity presented itself.

“You’re nineteen years old.”

“I’m… nineteen… years old?” I said, unsure. “Or… twenty-suh-suh-seven?” How old was I, really? But I could feel these physical happenings on me, changes, all over my body, and inside my mind too, like it was crawling with little feet. What the hell was going on?

“You’re nineteen.”

“I… I…”

“You’re nineteen years old.”

“I’m nineteen years old,” I said. I felt—well, better. My eyesight was a little better. Um, maybe getting a few extra years wasn’t such a bad thing.

“You remember being twenty-seven, but you’re really nineteen years old.”

“I… I remember… being twenty-seven,” I whispered, feeling my memories slide and rearrange. “But I’m… r-really… n-nine… nineteen years old.”

God, would reality change to accommodate that? There was this deep pulsar pain in my head. I had different friends—friends that I hadn’t even known before!—or had I known them my entire life?—a lot of the teachers I had had before, my favorite ones, had retired by the time I got into high school—I had different hobbies—entirely different games I played, books I read—I had never (but I had?) seen the old Star Wars movies—the Lord of the Rings was before my time…

“You act and think like a nineteen year old.”

“I… no… really?” I said, confused, as the light on me flickered and grew stronger.

“You think and act like a nineteen year old,” he said smoothly.

“I… act… and…” why was I resisting? I was fucking nineteen, wasn’t I? “think like a nineteen year old.”

What did it even mean, to think like a nineteen year old? That I was excited to be living on my own? That Juniors were kind of scary? Fuck all.

“You are nineteen.”

“I… I am nineteen” I said conclusively. Shit, this stuff was happening faster. My skin had finished changing—subtle stuff, that I’m not sure I would’ve noticed if it wasn’t like, sped up a hundredfold.

Fuck. I was actually—totally—inherently—nineteen years old. I stopped to weigh that thought in my head. I noticed Professor Rogers staring at me curiously, a finger lightly circling his bulge.

I mean, in my original reality—whatever the fuck “original reality” meant—I was twenty-seven. That should’ve been normal then, right? But it didn’t feel that way—I was kind of consternated—it felt foreign. But then also relieved. Twenty-seven is like, pretty fucking old.

Hah, I thought to myself. So this is what it’s like to be nineteen—no respect for my elders. I felt like laughing, but I didn’t. I gave him the finger instead.

He flipped off the projector, and it released me. I hadn’t realized how confined I was by it, and I sank into a chair, panting, my head lolling back. He pulled out his clipboard again.

“How do you feel,” he asked sympathetically.

“Um, really weird, you creepy fucking old bastard. My head hurts.” I was exhausted. “I’m not really nineteen again, am I? Holy hell.”

He smiled.

“Don’t you understand? Of course you’re not nineteen again. You were never nineteen before. Reality has changed, completely, irreversibly, one hundred percent. Welcome to the first time you’re nineteen.”

He pointed at my driver’s license, which was still on the coffee table, and my heart froze again. There it was: Annika Draper, 125 lbs, born 1997. It should have said 1990.

“Everyone you know has only known you as you are,” Rogers said smoothly. “And some you’ve never met—your boyfriend, for instance—Tom?”

Tom? I thought confused. Slowly it registered. God, I had never met him, had I? Was I really fucking nineteen years old? Of course you are, I thought back angrily. Rogers handed me a hand mirror which I grudgingly accepted, and I examined myself.

I looked… good. I mean, I looked like I had always looked, like when I had looked before I went out this evening to the library. But… another part of me hadn’t realized how much I had aged, from when it was twenty-seven. It had all happened so slowly! My face was smooth as a polished stone, lineless, and my hair was fuller. A baby face with splashes of total youth in it. Despite myself, I had a little flush of excitement. Maybe I could finally get matches on Tinder.

I mean, senior prom was just two years ago. My first and only date, a genuine guy named Karl (“I like movies”). Some awkward attempt at, well—hugging or something.

Ah, to be young. None of my friends would believe I used to be 27, I thought wryly. Odd to snap a commemorative selfie of your un-birthday. I could hardly even imagining buying alcohol legally, even though I had… sort of… done it today.

And then came the realization of worry. What else was he going to do to me? Shit. My ears pricked as I heard him move to the machine.

“So, uh,” I said, “messing up young girls for long?”

He smiled grimly. A little running snake of fear shivered through me. Was he going to turn me into some brainless bimbo? Some personal harem slave girl? Make me love it? Boy, was I willing to get in the back of the line and let someone else go first.

“Let’s progress a little faster, Annika. I think we have some personality changes to go through before we finish.”

I blanched.

“Oh, nothing like what you think,” he said confidently, “perhaps you think I’m some eighteen-year-old philistine fantasist. Water balloons on stick figures. Oh no.” He snapped on the projector and I felt myself tense, become malleable, his words like how clay must feel like, pressed by hands.

Jesus, maybe I’d turn out to be a fish after this one. Or maybe he’ll make you gorgeous, a petty, jealous voice in the back of my head said treacherously. Jesus, settle down subconscious.

I tried to think. Like, was it weird or not to be nineteen again? I thought about it while Rogers adjusted some knobs. I looked at my hair. It was long again, it went past my shoulders, just like I had kept it since I had been fourteen. Like it normally was. I decided it was much weirder to have been twenty-six than nineteen, for sure. The realization made me almost laugh again. I was feeling a little hysterical.

The gold light got brighter, and the machine started shaking. Uh-oh. High fucking setting.

“You’re a ballerina.”

“I’m… I’m… a…” What the hell?

“You’re a ballerina,” he said, pronouncing it oddly sonorously.

“I’m… I’m…” the machine was clanking and I could feel my insides. They felt like they were on fire. Like abwork from hell.

“You’re a ballerina,” he said, adjusting a knob.

“I’m a—a—b-b-b-balll….err,” and I had these weird new memories —of my lovely, sturdy mother, dressing a four-year-old me in ballet tights—of eight year old me, at my first serious recital—

“Say it. You’re a ballerina.”

“I’m—I’m a… a… b-babab-ballerina…” I said stutteringly, and I could feel my muscles slide over my body, my waist becoming increasingly svelte, my shoulder blades like they were wings. I’m a ballerina? I thought uselessly. I remembered practicing my pliés and depliés… the piano gracefully in the corner… hair pulled back and the teacher watching…

“You’re a ballerina.”

“I’m…” I hesitated, but the wave of this change couldn’t be stopped. “I’m a ballerina.” And I was. My ass was stacked. I taught at the local CoreBarre studio.

“Yes,” he said. “And you’re a sexy ballerina.” The voice waved over me, and I felt disoriented.

“I’m a… a sexy ballerina,” I said. I was totally confused. It felt like my legs were getting a little longer—or was I getting taller?—but I couldn’t be sure, everything was kind of blurry. What the fuck was a sexy ballerina?

“You’re a sensuous ballerina,” he said, and I had these weird flashes from ballet class. You weren’t just dancing, I believed firmly, you were also showing. Showing yourself. And then practicing my arabesques in the hallway at school, the most graceful senior there, my skirt slowly pulling up as my leg extended, and everyone sneaking looks, the teachers, the parents… and then standing up gracefully and smiling with a ballet curtsy. God…

“I’m a sensuous… the fuck…. sensuous ballerina…” I had images of me stretching on the street, bending over and touching my toes—was my waist pulling in more?—the boys looking uncomfortably on—me at gym glass, so absolutely graceful that everyone else kind of stopped doing anything when the soccer ball was kicked my way because they had an excuse to watch me move, watch me….

“You’re a sensuous ballerina…”

“I’m… a… sensuous ballerina…” I said, frustrated, biting my lip. These memories were burning across my mind. Was this me? I thought wildly. Yes, another part of me whispered—this is you—at the ballet recitals—some dancers stressed grace or classicism, but you, dancing so sensuously, the primary word that comes to mind…

“You love the sensuous aspect of being a ballerina.” This was getting a little weird. Was I sure I couldn’t fight this? The machine shook. I had to try something.

“I love… I love being a ballerina,” I said weakly. And I meant it. It was great.

“No,” Rogers said, “you love the sensuous aspect of being a ballerina.”

“Uug—” I said, trying to swallow my words, but I couldn’t. “I love…” and these memories, dimly started flashing. Practicing my pliés and deplés, dancing pas de deux with the cute boys, most of the gay, their hands on my waist…

“You love the sensuous aspect of being a ballerina…”

“I love…” and all of a sudden the rest blurted out of me. “I love the sensuous aspect of being a ballerina!” God, I did. I did I did I really did. The costumes, the seductive poses, the confidence in tights, the grace and poise, the cleanliness. And then the associated world too—of going to AP English, perfectly shaped and groom, maneuvering into my desk with ballerina poise—of going to the beach, back muscles rippling, a blue bikini and a loose skirt—sticking my leg straight into the air and pointing my toes.

An odd memory came—senior prom, a goofy, style-friendly nerd with nice hair. “I’ve never dated a ballerina before,” he said nervously, “or, um, anyone at all, really…” and I smiled and shifted in front of him gracefully, back and forth, and his eyes slid down me, down my dress, and his hands reaching for my waist…

“Of course, you were always a little large chested for a ballerina.”

“I was always…!”

“You were always a little large chested for a ballerina.”

I could feel it. Something was happening in my chest. It was like a seed, or something rising in the oven, and with every breath, something terribly sensual was happening, like my breasts were tumescent, hot, emboldened.

“I was always a little large… chested…” I could feel my breasts begin to expand. They had come out early, much earlier than the other girls, ”first in the state,” I overheard my mother say to my father once with a look, and worst, they were always a little large for ballet. When I went through puberty, I remember staring at them in disappointment as they got bigger and bigger. They weren’t massive or anything. But there went my ballet career, I had thought to myself glumly, cupping them in the mirror.

I shook my head to tried to clear my head.

“You were always a little large chested for a ballerina.”

“I was always… always a little large chested for a ballerina.” And wasn’t that the truth, holy fucking hell. I could feel them, right now, sitting heavy on my chest, unsupported, unfamiliarly expansive. I had never felt anything like it. I frowned, because, of course I had felt it before. I had felt it for years. I was even now thinking of how tough it made it to spin. It got worse and worse as I was older. Smushed against the guys on the carries. Having to use special costumes. Looking at my bust bittersweetly in the mirror.

I looked down. My shirt was draped funnily over my chest. I was a little confused by the image…

You have perfectly shaped tits.”

“I have…” I said, and for a moment I blanked. I mean, that simply wasn’t true. They were normal breasts, almost invisibly so, I mean, maybe a little weird looking, mostly the same size, but nothing off the bell curve, nothing, nothing that…

“You have perfectly shaped tits.”

“I have.. I have… perfectly shaped… tits.” And they were. I remember staring at them in the mirror in delight for hours, fondling them, hefting them, running my hands over them, posing with them. Everyone stared at them, something both delightful and awful—teachers, boys, girls, leery men at every coffee shop, the fathers as I got out of ballet practice and into my car. There was simply no way to hide them, their perfection. They looked fabulous from any angle in anything. My younger sister was jealous, you could tell—in fact, pretty much everyone was jealous. I’m not sure I ever saw a nude that had tits that were categorically better than mine. Mine.

I had a funny memory from back at senior prom, my dress, and even I felt it was a bit much, black, with teasingly youthful sequins and a long cut that mostly hid my legs but popped my top out. I remembered looking at them in satisfaction that afternoon, not angry at their size but happy, and then my cute date, a misplaced jock with wide shoulders (a quickly set up date, my boyfriend having just broken up with me), and he stuttered as he picked me up, bamboozled by my chest. The satisfaction.

Rogers was rolling his hands slightly faster in his pants. He wasn’t stroking. He was just applying pressure. Maybe he was about to get to the good part, I thought distantly. God only knew what that was. But it was hard to think straight. Everything was changing.

There was a brief pause.

“You’re a communications major,” he said finally. What the shit. No way was I going to let him to that to me.

“No, … I’m not,” I said as forcefully as I could. It sounded kind of weak to me, but the machine started stuttering. My heart lifted a little. Maybe I could resist.

Rogers just smiled wider and his hand went faster.

“You’re a communications major.”

“I’m... definitely not a communications major,” I gasped out. This fucking machine.

“Oh, but you are. You’re a sophomore communications major. You love it.”

“I’m… I’m… I-I-I-I’m a s-s-sophomore….

“Communications major. And you love it.”

“…cc-c-communications major… and I… I…” I remember talking it over with my advisor. I had some natural aptitude for science, but he had talked me out of it. He handed me a pamphlet for communications major, smiling patronizingly, mansplaining, saying I was probably more of a people person, his eyes straying towards my chest, and I was absolutely crushed. And the classes were so boring…

“You love being a communications major.”

“G-g-god, no, I love…”

“You love being a communications major.”

“I love being a communications major,” I breathed. I remember talking it over with my parents. I had some natural aptitude for science, which they had pushed lightly, but I talked myself out of it. I had found a pamphlet in the career advising office, and the brochure said the major had appeal to lots of employers, especially people-oriented people, like me. People always seemed to like me, smile, treat me well. (Plus, it wasn’t too much work, which was a good thing…)

Stop it Annika, I told myself. You’re a physicist. You almost have your Ph.D. for god’s sake.

Rogers was smiling broadly, and now his thing was out and he was stroking it calmly. Gross.

“You’re a sophomore communications major, and you love it.”

“I’m a… sophomore communications major… and I love it…” I said weakly. I was trying to fight it but I didn’t really have the reactionary anger anymore. I mean, I had class tomorrow. A History of Organizational Structure, one of my favorites. Omyfuckingod. But it was… great? Like, all the people in it were my friends, and the professor so cool?

“We’re almost done,” he said, and I didn’t respond. I couldn’t respond. The machine was shaking loudly, clacking like drawer-y furniture in the back seat of a car, and it had just about drained me out. Plus, I was thinking about the group project that was due tomorrow. All these new memories. No, not new… He started stroking faster, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw a weird gleam, and a small, moist drop of spit on his lips.

He must be at peak fantasy. This was insane.

“You’re… pert,” he said, drooling, stroking faster and faster.

“I’m… pert?” I said confused. I didn’t even know what that meant.

“You’re a perky girl.”

“I’m a perk…. A perky girl.” I tried to look through my memories. Nothing stood out. Perky? Like, chipper? Yeah, I guess… cheerful, always one to dance when the music was out… pouted intentionally sometimes in good humor. But doesn’t everyone? (No! And you sure don’t! a part of me said alarmed.) God. I clutched my head.

“You’re a perky girl.”

“I’m a p-p-erky girl.” I had a memory float from prom, my date, an athlete in college, several years older than me, handsome and a little overwhelming, and I was bouncing up to him as he picked me up, and I flashed him a smile and gave him a quick hug, both arms over his shoulders, genuine and close, pressed against him. And then as we drove to the club, my hand was comfortably on his thigh, chatting the whole way. I drew him out to the dance floor, my dress showing off my legs and cleavage, a yellow dress, and I cocked my head at him smiling.

“You’re a perky, cute girl.”

“I’m a perky… cute girl.” I was. I had the picture from prom to prove it—me mostly naked, posing in front of his camera with a brilliant, wet smile, cute as buttons and a zillion times sexier. Part of me wanted Rogers to continue. Part of me liked it. In any case, the rest of me was beyond caring.

“You’re a perky, cute young girl.”

“I’m a perky, cute… young girl.” I moaned. And I was. It was as simple as that. All my life.

He shut off the machine, and I deflated like I had just had my brains pulled out. I fell over onto the couch, lithely spread out over it. I had a splitting headache. I think I passed out.