The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Caroline could remember -barely- that she was still kicking and fighting the lingerie-clad girls as they brought her into the preparation chamber. She could remember also that she was not their match, and how easily they deposited her, like a sack of grain, face-down over the table. She vividly recalled the more extreme sensations of the ordeal, wrists pinned by two of the more toned girls as her skirt was unzipped by another and dropped around her ankles. The cold concrete beneath her stocking feet as her shoes were removed. And after her lace panties were moved adequately to one side. . .the syringe in her bottom was particularly memorable.

The rest, naturally, was a haze, though she could surmise much from her present situation. The girls had stripped her of suit and stockings, obviously, and replaced it with this. . .costume that she wore now. Then they had toyed with her some -a bit of play that she most certainly hadn’t objected to, given the nature of the HSA’s narcotics. And then, likely that when they were required to present her to Mistress Allison Taxton, they did so with slavish devotion and girlish giggles. Afterwards, her drug-wrought malleability fading, the girls bound her into her current position, and scampered pixie-like back into the shadows to watch.

And what a show it would be. Caroline could tell just from the setup.

Atop the dais, observing her plaything, sat Mistress Allison. Her legs, as always, shone prettily in their silken stockings -white this time. She had stripped off her business suit of earlier in the eve, and was wearing only a beige, satin camisole. Her blond hair fell down her shoulders, and with every cock of her head seemed to glide about them as though dancing. Caroline could only survey her mistress for a moment at a time, and had learned the inherent defeat of looking her in the eyes; but God, she was so beautiful.

In sharp contrast to Allison’s majesty was Caroline’s own position. The chamber was oriented like some sort of modern throneroom, replete with cold stone columns lining the path to the dais. The first time Caroline stirred, she realized that her movements were restricted. It took only a moment after that to discover why: a tiny but invariably sturdy chain ran from one of those columns, the one nearest her Mistress’ platform, to the choker that always adorned her lovely neck. With her mistress watching, Caroline would not try her slack, but past experience suggested that she had exactly enough to reach the top of the dais, and her mistress’ touch. ‘Oh lord,’ she thought pleadingly, ‘please don’t let it be bad.’

As she grew more nervous, she began to stir, and the rustle of her costume brought it’s details to her attention. It was quite unlike anything that she’d ever been forced to wear, outraegous and gaudy beyond all of her former standards. The first thing to strike her was the glaring pinkness of it all: not a hot pink, but a soft, girlish pink, the sort that might speckle a nursery room. She wore pink tights, though they were more sheer than most tights, almost like the variety worn by ballerinas. There were no shoes, but around her ankles were tiny pink bands, upon which were tied little bells that rang softly when she moved. Her waist, she found, was similarly ringed, but instead of bells there were harnesses on the belt, shiny clasps that stood out as the only non-rosy shade of her garment. It seemed to restrictive and harsh, especially relative to the soft, sheer teddy that cradled her beautiful breasts, midriff, and shoulders. The teddy seemed almost like a body-stocking in it’s texture and hugging confines, and about it were sprinkled sequins: a few here and there to give the bodice an even more eye-catching quality, if that was possible. Lastly, her long, dark hair, normally flowing over her shoulders, was bound in a thick braid, tied up at the end (or course) with pink ribbon.

‘What is she doing?’ Caroline thought. ‘This can’t be my punishment. . .It’s too. . .soft, too feminine. Where are the whips, the paddles, the dildos?’ Caroline grimaced as she envisioned the instruments. But a tiny voice in the back of her head whispered, ‘But the paddles taught you disciplince, girl. And the dildos made you scream, made you look at her and whimper for more.’

It was at this moment that the mistress stood, and descended the stairs, high heels clicking menacingly, and she whipped her hand behind her and then before her in an arc. When Caroline beheld it, she saw the device.

“Get on all fours, my bitch.” And she pressed a button.

A surge of pleasure assailed her pussy. A virtual wave, that eclipsed her crotch and ripped all coherence from her mind. Never had she felt such pleasure there. It rolled over her in a surge, and then ebbed, the aftershocks hitting her cunt like a car hits speedbumps. Caroline fell down flat where she stood, struggled to obey her mistress, to pull herself onto hands and knees, but the cum was too powerful. It put her back down onto the floor like no blow could have.

Ms. Allison continued to advance, placing one beautiful foot daintily in front of the other in her approach. “Bitch? Did I not call you to heel?” Another push of the button.

“Yeeeeeeeeeeuuughhhhhhhhhh. . . unh. . .unh. . .mis. . .mistress. . .oh. . .” She tried again, pushed her pink stockinged knees underneath her. . .but again the button was pushed. It almost hurt this time, so tender was she under her tights. “UNNGHHH!!” And again she sank, groaning, panting prettily, perfect shoulders rising and falling. All the while the bells and harness adorning her uniform tingled quietly. “Mist. . .mistress, please. . .” A moment, a moment to obey was all she needed. Just had to catch her breath.

But now Allison stood over her, the opulent lighting casting an oppressive shadow. “Bitches do not speak. They howl.” She held her finger menacingly over the button, and Caroline hefted her weary head in time only to see her smile. The next orgasm brought blackness.

When she awoke, perhaps moments later, perhaps hours, her position had not changed. She was still costumed, still chained. And Allison still stood near, still in stockings and camisole, though this time with another woman, fully attired, a young-ish brunette with more rounded breasts and hips. They were not looking at her; instead they had their heads together, speaking quickly and frankly.

“So,” Allison said, with an air of finality, “she suspects nothing?”

“Nothing, Ms. Taxton. In fact, she’s more conscious of herself than of the happenings here. When you first wet her, she ran to the restroom so quickly I feared she might trip.” There was a pause. “Mistress, I wonder at that hidden potential you perceived. Was the really the most perfect applicant?”

There was warning in Allison’s tone. “Do not presume too far. We mustn’t underestimate the Agency’s presence here. It’s the nature of the game, Tristen, that you must keep up appearances.” Caroline’s heart seized. She knew that name. Her body shifted a bit involuntarily, and the bells at her ankles betrayed her movement.

Allison and Tristen both turned to regard her with raised eyebrows, but the latter spoke first: “And as for her, Mistress?”

Allison stepped forward, withdrew a stocking foot from her shoe, and dragged her toes sensuosly along the outside of Caroline’s thigh, the nylons rasping together appealingly. “Her access to Jennifer will be limited, starting tomorrow. But that is tomorrow. For tonight. . .she is yours to play with. Just remember the rules.”

Tristen clapped her hands and laughed heartlily, quickly beginning to disrobe. Caroline cringed. Tristen had been with the HSA longer than most of the others, she had heard, and totally gave herself to Allison years ago. Since, she had be become as cruel and demanding, if not as surgical, as her mistress, adopting both Ms. Taxton’s penchant for humiliation and fetish for hosiery. Caroline had never seen her up close, but the serving girls gave her as wide a berth as they did Allison.

“Caroline, tonight you are to be a bitch in deed as well as name,” Allison said, moving back to the dais. “Get up on all fours, and let Tristen examine you.”

Caroline obeyed quickly, expecting another burst to her pussy. She was surprised and mortified at her disapointment when there was none.

Tristen approached, and Caroline arched her back carefully, tension running through her body. “Oh,” Tristen said, “oh, mistress, this is a fine bitch.” She ran her finger tips through Caroline’s dark hair, tracing the braid to where it fell along her back. “Well bred.” She knelt and looked beneath Caroline as a farmer might a cow, and grabbed one of her pink-wrapped nipples. Caroline made a small, girlish noise, despite herself. Tristen smiled at Allison from over her back. “And in heat.” She continued to touch Caroline provocatively, cupping her at the base of her breasts, and then moving her hands downward to pinch her nipples. She repeated this over and over, petting Caroline’s tits, pinching harder and harder each time. The texture of the teddy was no protection, and it’s stocking-like feel probably only encouraged her torment. Tristen persisted until Caroline squealed cutely every time, then she stood, and renewed her surface examination.

Her hands stopped when they reached Caroline’s bottom, heart-shaped and plump, and pressed into the air by her position. “Now this,” she said with admiration and glee, “is the crowning touch.” With that, Caroline felt something tugging at the back of her tights, pulling the already-stretched material to it’s limit. It was weird how she pulled, Caroline thought, as though a handle had been affixed to the seat of her hose. Despite herself, she turned to view her tormentor. She wished she hadn’t. Her face went crimson with humiliation. In Tristen’s hands and stitched onto Caroline’s panty was a fluffy pink tail, the sort that adorned Playboy bunny costumes, only bigger. “It’s like she’s a puppy!” Tristen let the waistband of her tights snap back, and Caroline grunted at the sting. “Well, Caroline,” she said as she completed her circuit, “would you like to go for a walk?”

Caroline shook her head with embarassment, not meeting her eyes. “Please, mistress...I just—” Then she felt a jolt in her vagina, not the pleasurable sort, but a sharp, quick burst that widened her brown eyes and made her look to the dais.

Allison held the control menacingly. “My bitch, you do not learn well. You may not speak, or I will become angry.” She crossed her stocking legs slowly at the knee. “You will go on a walk. Show Tristen that you want to.” She turned to the darker recesses of the throne room, and snapped her fingers twice: “And you, servant girls. Lay down some carpet. I do not want her running her tights on these cold, hard floors.” There was the clicking of high heels as they rushed off and returned with a massive, rolled up rug, which they unfurled along the length of the room.

Then there was a tug at her collar. Tristen had unhooked the chain from it’s clasp, and held it before her like a leash. She looked menacing in her pitch black skirt-suit, high, strappy heels and equally dark stockings. But she sounded bright and chipper as she gave the leash another tug. “Come puppy.” Then she began to walk.

Caroline knew innately that she couldn’t stand and follow, and the slack was already beginning to run out. It was either follow or choke, she knew. Flushing to the hairline, she moved as quickly as she could on her hands and knees, pursuing Tristen’s quick, dignified pace with one of mortification.

The reward was a different sensation in her pussy. A warm, glowing sensation.

Caroline continued to follow. By the second circuit, she was growing tired and her knees were becoming sore. She began to slow, falling farther and farther behind Tristen. The jolt in her pussy this time was not pleasant. It spurred her on.

She knew what was being done to her. She’d studied Pavlovian responses at Harvard. She knew about HSA’s technical marvels, tiny slivers that could manipulate a body’s pleasure zones, and knew that she wore them in her tights and teddy now. Still, the knowing made little difference; she could not resist the sensations. As she matched Tristen’s pace, her cunt grew warm again, as did her breasts and calves. Soon the ache was sponged away completely, and Caroline began to breath heavily without influence of the walk at all.

When they stopped before the dais, Tristen walked in front of her, and slipped off her shoes. Caroline’s head came only to her knees, but she could see the length of her legs was luscious. There was an electronic wave that rolled alongside her breasts, then, and Caroline’s nipples stood out tautly against her teddy. Still on hands and knees, she began to make soft little noises of pleasure. ‘Please,’ Caroline thought, even through her whimpers, ‘please leave me some dignity. Please, I was a strong woman. . .’ She closed her eyes. ‘A beautiful woman.’ The humming in her breasts was joined by a renewed warmth in her pussy. God, she couldn’t let herself enjoy this! Where was the agent? The one she’d tried to help? But these thoughts faded into the background as she felt hands in her hair, loosening the ribbon, then untwining the tightly-knit braid.

“Shhh. . .you’re a good girl, Caroline.” The voice sang, perfectly harmonized with the humming of her body. Slowly, the hands moved through her hair, smoothing, petting.

Caroline couldn’t help herself. She arched her neck to receive the attention. “Mmmmm. . .please, mistress, please. . .don’t stop. . .”

“Shhh.” The hands moved down back now, stopped her waist. There was a jinkle as they grasped her harness. Slowly, willingly, Caroline allowed her body to be manipulated by Tristen, until she was upright, sitting lady-like on a hip with her legs crossed at the ankle beside her. Her pussy continued to glow. Slowly, she felt the hands move away, and heard the rustle of clothing behind her. Her eyes stayed shut, she began to rock her hips back and forth gently to the rhythm of the pulses in her body, her ankle bells ringing softly. She was close, so close.

The hands again returned, this time from behind her back. The fingers danced like a light rain atop her breasts, pausing once in a while to tug the silky material of her teddy softly back and forth along her nipples. . .oh, God, her nipples. . .’Please,’ she thought, ‘please pinch them. . .’ The hands obliged. God, had she spoken alou. . .“Ohh!” Another pinch, harder: “Oh!”

One hand slid down her stomach while the other cupped and squeezed. “Caroline, my goodness. You’re such a naughty girl.” The hand had reached the sodden pink crotch of her tights. “Bad,” she whispered in Caroline’s ear, “bad, Harvard girl. Such a mess.”

“Ohh...yesss. . .”

The hand gently rubber her crotch, so gently. “I think that you want to cum, Caroline, that’s what I think.”

“Y-yess. . .”

The gentleness stopped. The hands gripped the harnesses on her belt, and then wrenched her around. Tristen grabbed her at her shoulders, and shook her: “Do you want to cum, bitch!?” Caroline’s head drifted backward from her ordeal, her eyes still closed. But the warmth in her pussy had not abated.

“Mistressss. . .yesss...”

“Then open your eyes.”

Caroline’s beautiful brown lashes fluttered open, and she saw that Tristen had indeed stripped herself down to nearly nothing. Only her sheer black pantyhose remained, at the crotch of which Caroline could see a stain which rivaled her own. Her breasts were full and round, C’s to be sure; her hair was darker than Caroline’s, but still brunette, and it fell nearly to tops of her bosom, teasing and tantalizing as it swept them with her gestures. This, she could barely see, because the room’s lighting had been diminished.

Retrieving the end of her leash, Tristen stood, moved with Caroline to the foot of the dais’ stairs, and softly descended until her hosed bottom rested atop the third. Caroline was entranced by her legs as she spread them slowly, until there was but a foot between her knees, and straightened them, pushing one between Caroline’s own. She then looked pointedly at Caroline, and moved her silky foot up Caroline’s calf. “You have proven an obedient bitch. Now to your reward.” With that, she jerked downward on the chain, and Caroline fell into place, her pink legs astride Trister’s black.

Her eyes gained some clarity then, and she began to understand. “Mistress. . .I. . .you want me to. . .” It was obvious what she wanted her to do. Moreso when the pulse in her vagina renewed.

“Ohnnhh! Yes! Y-yes!” She would, she would, and she moved her wet crotch up and down Tristen’s thigh, slowly at first, but then, as she began to warm to the rhythm, faster. Faster. Hands grabbed her tits, squeezed it through the teddy, the ridiculous pink teddy, pinched her nipples, she humped and humped, hoping for pleasure, caught in the moment. . .

“Yes, bitch. . ugh!. . .yes, that’s it, hump my leg like the bitch you are. . .” And Tristen began to hump back, pulled Caroline’s hands onto her shoulders to brace them, started sliding her crotch up and down those girlish pink tights. “Oh, God! OH YES!”

“Ungh. . .” No, don’t stop, so close, so close, she stopped sliding her crotch about Tristen’s thigh and just began hoisting herself up and down, pounding her crotch against her thigh again and again. . .“Unh. . .unhhh. . .” and again. . .until. . .

“UHNHGHHHH!!!!”

She felt unhinged, felt herself spilling, toppled off of Tristen, caught herself, and rolled to the carpet below. Blackness began to overcome her, she felt so wet, so warm; a moment of unconsciousness. . .it would be a boon now. . .

A moment. . .

A moment of quiet as she laid there, soaked with sweat and girl-cum, the carpet soft upon her features.

Until there came a new tug upon her leash.

Allison Taxton, looking creamy and magificent as usual, smiled and jerked insistently. Her turn, after all, had not yet begun.

Sunday morning. St. Peter’s Cathedral. Five hundred and seventy sinners.

The light which burst through that stained glass each such morning had a special charge: cast every soul within, regardless of tarnish, in such a way as to devalue every mistake, accentuate every philanthropy, undermine all misfortunes, and ratify the beauty (internal and otherwise) inherently possessed.

Jennifer Grey was one of those who hardly needed such a treatment. She sat about thirty pews back (twenty-eight behind the President) daintily attired in the same church-type clothes she’d worn since she was a little girl: flowery dress, soft, white hose, and sensible black shoes. Her brown hair hung loose across her shoulders, which were otherwise bare, and legs were crossed lady-like at the ankle. Her hands, naturally enough, were pressed together before her slightly bowed head.

“Our father, who art in heaven...”

But her heart was not really in it. Instead, she pondered the case, the Agency, and the HSA, sometimes coherently, sometimes just the random flashes borne of the instinct that had bought her her position in the first place. There just were too many questions. Why did the building, the entire building, keep such strange hours? Why had the Agency isolated this particular cell for investigation? And why by her, an agent whose entire case history connotated assignments to homicide cases and blue collar smuggling? And, most importantly, what was it about her time in that office that had affected her so? The last three nights at the office had her taking a quick breather from work, only to find herself heavily daydreaming. The next thing she knew, she was hurrying to the lady’s restroom to dry her excretions from her pantyhose. God, even now she shook her head in humiliation. Maybe, she thought, it just really has been that long since I had a decent orgasm.

“SEX,” the priest boomed, “is a HOLY and NATURAL act! It is NEEDLESSLY misconstrued by the DEVIL’S hand in order to...” Jennifer shook her head, embarrassed, yanked from her thoughts. The priest was going on and on about the dangers of homosexuality, how it had been mainstreamed by the media. Well, by them and by Satan. ‘Same old, same old,’ Jennifer thought. She wondered if anyone else was listening.

As she cast her eyes about, however, she saw that everyone actually was unusually attentive. Rapt, even. That was odd. Usually, by about this point in the sermon, she could catch the wandering eyes of some gorgeous (but inevitably, she’d later find, conceited) guy and...

“Psst. Jennifer.”

Jennifer turned to see a girl from the office, the pretty Hispanic girl who had greeted her on her first day, sitting beside her. Caroline, that was her name. Crisp business suit and black stockings. A little fancy, but whatever. Funny, had she been sitting there before? No matter.

“Hi,” Jennifer whispered, smiling. “Good to see another unrepentant soul.”

Caroline stood then, and moved sideways as if to cross in front of Jennifer to the other side, but instead knelt facing her when she was uncomfortably close.

“THESE GAYS, THEY’RE NOT OUR ENEMIES!” the preacher exhorted. “WE ARE TO LEAD THEM BACK TO GOD! BACK TO...”

Jennifer tried to scoot over a bit, to make room for Caroline to pray, although this wasn’t exactly her conception of inspiring stuff. “Uh, Caroline, you’re facing the wrong way.”

Caroline smiled up at her from the floor: “Am I?” And instead of clasping her hands before her, she reached down and took hold of Jennifer’s ankles, uncrossing them with ease.

Jennifer started with surprise, and she jerked her eyes around to see if anyone was watching. No one. Not a soul. All eyes were on the priest, now quite red faced, and shaking his Bible in the air.

“Caroline!” she whispered harshly. “Caroline, what are you doing?” She tried to recross her smooth, stocking legs, this time at the knee, but Caroline still held them firmly apart. Her grip was like a vice!

Caroline shifted her position, put her bottom more solidly on the floor, all the while holding Jennifer’s legs apart. “Jennifer,” she said amidst her shifting, “do you like me?” Then, quick as a cat, she slung Jennifer’s left leg up onto her right shoulder, mindless of the pointy black shoe, and held it there.

Jennifer began to struggle then, tried to tug her pretty white leg from Caroline’s grip, her eyes repeatedly racing across her fellow church-goers, terrified of what might be perceived. Still, no one saw. God, were they blind!?

She made no progress, and soon her other leg was atop Caroline’s right shoulder, sliding back and forth silkily as she struggled.

“I BESEECH YOU, IF YOU’VE BEEN HOLDING BACK HELP BECAUSE OF THIS ‘POLITICAL CORRECTNESS,’ IF YOU KNOW SOMEONE BUT HAVE SAID NOTHING...”

Jennifer’s face grew even warmer as her panic increased. Her stocking feet were now not only astride this girl’s shoulders, but shoeless, as Caroline had quickly tugged them off and tossed them to the floor. The clatter as they landed was deafening in the hollow old building, but still her plight was unnoticed. “Jennifer,” Caroline whispered in a voice so low she could barely hear, “Jennifer, I’ve wanted to do this for a long time.” She released Caroline’s right leg, but her next move made Jennifer forget to continue struggling. Quickly, and with precision, her fingers pushed button after button through the holes of her own blouse, tugged its shirttails from the waistband of her skirt, and pulled it open until her perfect brown tits, bra-less and round, portruded from within. In fact, the only thing holding the garment on at all, Jennifer took in with shock, were her legs atop Caroline’s shoulders! That didn’t last long; she quickly lifted them and tried to place her feet on the floor, knees together.

Caroline giggled softly and shrugged the rest of the way out of her blouse, now sleek and naked from the waist up. She did this quickly, and so still had time to retrieve Jennifer’s fleeing legs. Jennifer grunted in discomfort as Caroline tugged them open again, and ducked her head to move between her knees, her pretty tits swinging in the motion. Caroline pursed her lips in a low whistle as she gazed fixedly up Jennifer’s dress. “You want me to pleasure you, Jennifer. I just know it.”

“Caroline...no! God, this can’t be happening...” She had to stop this, before....

“MY GOD! MY GOD, WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?!?” The priest’s scream was too aghast for anger.

Jennifer covered her face with her hands.

Caroline didn’t turn, but stiffened, like an athlete preparing for some burst of physical energy.

From between her fingers, Jennifer watched the priest approach, legs and arms swinging forward with equal momemtum, his stride propelling him down the aisle while he shouted his indignity: “GOD ALMIGHTY, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE IN HIS HOUSE?! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” There was a noisy shuffling as the congregation turned as well, to observe the source of his outrage.

Caroline still stared at Jennifer’s exposed crotch, seemingly unhearing. Her fingers danced softly over Jennifer’s imprisoned legs, pulling at and petting the hosiery that enwrapped them. Then, she too began to approach. And before the priest was halfway across the distance between them, her assailant had her face in Jennifer’s crotch.

There was a collective gasp from the congregation, followed by one of Jennifer’s own. She pulled her hips back impulsively, found she couldn’t retreat any further, and Caroline pursued, first nuzzling insistently, and then opening her lips over Jennifer’s own. The priest was nearly there, shouting and waving the good book as though to ward off demons. She didn’t know what to do. Atop the bench, she writhed and struggled, watched by hundreds, the bodice of her soft, flowery dress pushed and pulled across her midriff, across her bosom, the skirt shucked mostly above her waist, Caroline’s black hair playing across her thighs, a sharp contrast to the white silk which sheathed them.

And then there was the warmth, the wetness of her tongue, able to bathe her womanhood despite the pantyhose, to make pointed incursions between the lips of her vagina, to stiffen her clit to the point where it stood so firmly against its silky confines that Caroline could rub it with her nose.

The priest had reached them then, and stood, fists on his hips like a disapproving parent. They made quite the scene; Jennifer could see it, as though through the priest’s eyes: Caroline, oblivious, nuzzling, arms wrapped around the muscular thighs, holding them, which in turn held her, as they pressed tightly in on her ears now, so that likely the only thing she could hear were the legs working within the stockings themselves.

And working they were, pulling and pushing against the arms and shoulders that held them prisoner, Caroline’s nails pulling deep runs in her hose. But to no avail. Every other second the struggle would subside, and one might notice that Jennifer’s toes curled sexily, that her thighs flexed around Caroline’s ears, but then the moment would renew itself to Jennifer, and her legs jutted and kicked again.

She could feel her breath on her pussy: deep, hot exhalations that seemed to speak louder than the priest above them, who now had taken to whispering furiously about her sin. But it seemed far away, and soon her own breasts began to rise and fall heavily, and the noise of the congregation and preacher both began to fade before the rhythmic sound of her gasps. Caroline began to bite, to nibble gently on her clitoris, and her hose were so soaked and strained now that they began to tear along the seam, permitting further access.

It was becoming too much. So many eyes on her, on this girl beween her legs, on her thrusts and moans. She had lost control, felt them all watching her, mouths open and eyes barely registering. The priest too had stopped, arms resting at his sides for the first time that morning, mouth open with nothing to say. The heat built, and there was no question now as to who was holding whom; her legs, now wrapped at the ankle behind Caroline’s back, now pulled her closer, wetter, warmer, to finish the job. Jennifer saw those wagging brown tits, saw them wiggle as she pulled and forced her would-be assailant, compelled her with her stockinged legs, ran them sexily along Caroline’s muscular form, until finally...she bucked, and bucked, and...“OOOHHHNNNNGHHHHHHHHHH GGGGGGGGGGOOOOOOOOOOOOODDDDDDDDD!!!!”

They watched. All of them. The men among them pointedly avoided the eyes of the women.

At last it was over. Jennifer teetered over in her seat, dress twisted to point of irrelevance, and slumped against the pew.

Caroline stood slowly, the sides of her face red, teetered, and placed a hand on the priest’s shoulder to regain her balance. Beyond that, she acknowledged the existence of no one besides Jennifer. And to her, she offered the other hand. “You know,” she said, “that you need this...”

But Jennifer was beyond it all now, tired and glowing in a manner that she’d never known. She did not refuse the hand, yet nor did she seize it. Instead, she closed her eyes, and let her head slump to the cold wood below.

Even with them shut, she could still feel their stares. And this time, the light of St. Peters did nothing but intrude.

It just shone and shone, through her lids, persisted, would not go away...until...

At home, in her bed, Jennifer Grey started awake. Her hand went to her forehead in a gesture that was glaringly Victorian, as belying of her old self as was the nightgown and stockings which had become her sleepwear of late. Both were soaked with sweat.

She sighed heavily, as though trying to expel the dreams through her breath alone. It had been the fourth in as many days. Since she had started work at the HSA, as a matter of fact. And that woman...the one who....Jennifer put her face in her hands, and began to cry. But only for a moment. The clock marked 4:00.

She slid from her bed, and moved to the nightstand. The old wood creaked in protest as she opened her favorite drawer...and withdrew her handgun. Then she slid from her lingerie, and began to dress. It was almost time for work, after all.