The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Shimmering Fields”

by Cristina Prince

Part I: Jess Gets Messed

Glasses clinked and bar-hoppers chatted above the last chords of the last song of Jess Rabinowicz’s set. It was a drone-filled, noisy rendition of “Stand By Your Man” played on electric banjo, her instrument of choice. She had rigged up a projector on the wall behind her that cycled through different photos of meth-faced, unfortunate women.

Not that any of the seven people in attendance noticed. Furthering the irony was the fact that her own man, Jude, was AWOL. She hadn’t heard from her boyfriend in three nights, so her playing was distracted and spotty at best. She didn’t even have the energy to cleverly retort to some dude’s cry for “Freebird” during one of her more abstract numbers.

Kidz Kult Records had been nice enough to sponsor a 20-date, small venue tour in support of her underselling debut LP “Wishtron 8000”. The president of the label called her the night before, after she had capably performed for a slightly less modest number of people in Pittsburgh. “Make sure to hock as many copies as you can.” He went on to make some complaint about piracy and mp3 sales that didn’t add much to the dialogue.

Jess locked her banjo in its case and gathered some stray cords. She highly doubted she could even give away a single copy. Pittsburgh awarded her some sparse, polite applause, but tonight, during her murder ballad “Choctaw Moon”, people were straight up laughing at her.

She sighed. Poren Springs, PA. God bless these hicks. Only five dates into the tour and she was already thinking about cancelling the rest of it. Going back to school to be a pharmacy tech suddenly didn’t seem so bad.

A sweaty, swaying fat man in overalls ambled up to the stage as she was just about done breaking down her equipment. He scratched his neck, unsure how to put what he was trying to say. “Uh, we don’t usually pay the bands unless we get at least thirty heads in here.” He paused when he saw she couldn’t hold back her tears any longer. “We make our money on drinks, sad to say. Maybe next time play some more covers or something.” He didn’t know what else to do, and awkwardly left.

Typical, Jess thought. She didn’t even get offered a complimentary beer. The tour, such as it was, would on occasion land her at a DIY arts collective or college campus, where she could most certainly make a little gas money. But it was mostly going to be dives like this. She sucked up her pride, tied her bandana around her neck, and went outside for a smoke. Nobody congratulated or looked at her as she walked past.

She went into her jeans pockets and checked her phone. No new calls. She was about to dial Jude but thought better of it, having already tried him twice earlier in the day. She pulled the last of her American Spirits from the soft pack and flicked her lighter. A spark, but nothing else. It certainly added insult to injury.

Before she could gather enough willpower to step back into the sports bar and see if the bartender had any matches and maybe buy a beer, a woman ambled up from around the corner and held up a lighter of her own. Jess graciously accepted, cupping her hand around the flame.

“That was a great set,” the woman said, and lit a cigarette of her own. It smelled flavored with something, sweeter than a clove. “Thank you,” Jess said meekly. “That’s really sweet.” “No, really,” continued the woman, stepping into the overhead light, making it easier for Jess to see who she was small-talking with.

“You don’t see many independent women playing independent songs ‘round these parts. I’m Trixie.” Trixie was wearing a short denim skirt with an undone studded belt under a poochy little belly. Her lavender halter with lace trim wasn’t even trying to hide a pair of whopping breasts. Her heavily made-up face was framed by thick, black curls.

“Jess,” the frazzled artist offered. “And thanks again, it really means a lot.” She looked the woman over again. It was really hard not to, she demanded attention. She definitely didn’t remember her in the crowd. “Say, where’s the cheapest motel around here?” Jess wasn’t exactly looking forward to spending any more time cruising around this town if she didn’t need to. She had at least three hours to drive the next day.

Trixie took a drag, exhaling in poor Jess’s face. At least it smelled good. “Well, there’s always Burt’s Lodge, but that’s over in Cherub Cove. An’ judgin’ by the looks of you, you wouldn’t want to go there.” The musician felt slightly offended and stereotyped. “Why?” she asked, forthright. “I’ve never even heard of that place.”

Trixie’s eyes went wide for a second then receded into a wholly pleasant smile. If this girl wasn’t bluffing, she really was off the grid. “Where are you from, Jess?”

“Originally from Western Mass., but I moved to Boston with my boyfriend two years ago to pursue my career.” She didn’t exactly feel compelled to ask this woman where she was from. She could guess by the fact that she was barefoot that it couldn’t be too far away. She couldn’t imagine living here, it was much too quiet. Even just standing out in front of this bar, she hungered for some kind of sound of activity. An ambulance, anything. “So, where did you say this Burt’s Lodge was?”

“Screw Burt’s Lodge!” Trixie resounded, pulling another drag and sending it seemingly deliberately at Jess’s face. So much of the exhalation made it her way that she had to cough. All she could smell was that weird, delicious smoke. She hesitated but eased up. This was certainly an experience, at least. “Why don’t you come back inside and stay a while? Let me buy you a drink.” Jess couldn’t refuse. Maybe it would lighten her sour mood.

Forty minutes and five rum and cokes later, Jess and Trixie ambled out of the bar for a cigarette, bumping into each other, messy and laughing like old friends. “Did you see the way that guy kept looking at your boobs?” Jess asked in hysterics.

“See him?” Trixie cried. “When you were taking a piss, he motorboated ‘em!” They both let out out gales of giggles. “No!” Jess said loudly, in disbelief. “Uh-huh, yep,” Trixie admitted. “But don’t worry, he used to play football with my big brother back in the day, so it’s all good.”

That made sense to Jess, somehow. The drinks had been inexplicably rich and creamy in this way that they went down so easily. She hadn’t felt that drunk in a long time. The sound of crickets was now deafening. She reached for her pack of smokes only to recall she’d smoked her last one already. Trixie offered her one of hers without even being asked. “You’re so nice!” Jess said, and laughed some more.

“Honey, that’s juss how we’re raised here,” Trixie told her. Jess took her first drag and almost immediately felt a tingling lightness that interacted with her buzz very nicely. She started to feel worked up in a way that only showed itself when she was around Jude. She felt cursed. Now she had to think about him.

He had to help his sister move. Big whoop. He didn’t even say where he was going. What kind of moving lasted three days? She paused, aware she hadn’t said anything for a little bit. “This cigarette is really tasty, Trix.” That’s what all the guys in the bar called her. “It’s like I’m stoned or something.”

Trixie pivoted inside the door to stick her head in and check the clock on the wall. In doing so, her little skirt rode up, revealing a bare, big ass. Jess blushed. Normally she would have been embarassed for such a woman, but she found it hard to pass judgement. Not when Trixie was so self-assured, comfortable, and providing.

“It’s quarter to 1,” Trixie said after she turned around, making a half-hearted attempt at pulling down her skirt, her cheeks still in loud opposition. “Almost last call.” She straightened out the musician’s kerchief. If Jess wasn’t drunk, she might have thought the gesture condescending. “I have some real weed back at my place if you want to smoke with me. My treat for the road-weary tour machine.”

Jess laughed and mulled it over. She had picked up an eighth at the beginning of her tour in Asheville, but had used the last of it the previous night in Pittsburgh to roll her own personal blunt, to stave off encroaching loneliness. Still, as dry as she was, and as nice as Trixie had been, buying her all those delicious drinks...

“I dunno,” she said, uninhibited enough to turn the tables and adjust Trixie’s clothing now, pulling the backwoods bombshell’s skirt neatly down her hips as much as she could, “I’m thinking I should probably just head out over to Butt’s—I mean, Burt’s Lodge now.” She hiccuped as Trixie pulled the songwriter’s keys from her pocketbook.

“Uh-uh-uh, I don’t think so!” Trixie sang. “After you finished your third rum and coke, you gave me these and told me not to let you get behind the wheel.” She plucked the funny purple cigarette from Jess’s fingers, almost ashed to the filter, and took the last drag for her, getting up close to the girl, blowing it right in her eyes. “Remember?”

“—koff—Kinda...” She really didn’t remember saying that, but she couldn’t argue that she was sloshed. “Alright, well... what are we going to do?” Trixie hopped up and down, giddy, a crucifix almost getting swallowed off its necklace by her jugs at every bounce. As charming as this semi-stranger was, she was starting to get a little obnoxious. It was certainly a weird omen for the rest of the tour, anyway. “Well?”

“Settle down, sister!” Trixie said in a mock drill sergeant tone. “I can get us a cab. Also my treat! I keep treating you!” She petted Jess’s short, limp brown hair as she said that, wishing for a barette. “Then we can head over to my place and smoke ganj!” She sized Jess up.

“I’m sure we’ll get the munchies, but don’t you worry about that.” She grabbed a roll of flab collecting around her own waist to illustrate her point. “Mama Trixie can cook!” Jess was kind of hungry already, she had to admit. “Make you look like a woman and not a little girl!”

As tipsy as she was, Jess was present enough to get simultaneously offended and perplexed by that comment. Even if Trixie looked twice the woman as most pin-up girls. Jess’s own body, while trim and fit and nothing to scoff at, lacked in the hips and bust department. Not totally flat, most people still thought she was. Especially when she hid it in loose flannel.

Even so, she didn’t see how this total woman’s food could make her look better, nor did she want to. “Fine, but Trixie—where am I going to—”

“Spend the night?” she finished the artist’s question, now grabbing her by the wrist to the corner of the street where, inexplicably, a taxi was already waiting for them. Wasn’t it just, like, a minute ago that Trixie was talking about phoning for a cab?

She couldn’t be sure, though. She was drunk. “Of course you can crash at my place! My husband’s out of town, so you can sleep in my bed with me, or take the sofa bed.” The second option had an acrid, disgusted tone.

“You have a husband?” Jess supposed that it wasn’t so hard to believe, but what kind of happily married woman dresses like an overgrown schoolgirl that’s trying to look grownup? Perhaps more pertinent, what wife shoved their breasts in another man’s face just for shits and giggles? “I mean, yeah. Whatever works.” She smiled, feeling good but feeling rushed.

In a blurry flash, Trixie prepaid the cab driver with a big, ruby-colored coin that scarcely resembled U.S. currency, and they were on their way. Neither woman noticed that the singer’s instrument case was sitting there on the curb.

* * *

Back at Trixie’s pastel-swathed pad, at the tail end of their second, easy-paced bowl pack, Jess had a slow but potent revelation. It was of great metaphysical import.

“I’m like.. beyond stoned,” she intoned like a sorceress, using measured syllables. “That’s good, sweetie,” Trixie the hostess placated, placing two ornate silk doilies on the coffeetable, then big, big glasses of strawberry-chocolate milkshake on top of each one. “You deserve it.”

“Thanks, Mama Trix,” Jess sighed. She would have to tell her labelmates not to miss Poren Springs and to look Trixie up. She was an excellent help. She made the best double bacon cheeseburgers, too. “Those onion rings were bangin’.”

Trixie ashed her cigarette and chomped on a fingernail, preoccupied with something. “I’m glad you think so, my little genius,” the picture of femininity said, making Jess blush with her compliment. “I just hope you have room for my world famous sweet potato bimborritos!” She lilted that last, sketchy-sounding word, and rolled the r.

Jess’s slim but bloated tummy grumbled even though she had filled it three times over already. “Well, if they’re world famous,” she shrugged, lost in her dim haze of overconsumption. She hardly heard what her new buddy reccomended. Something about burritos. She was basking too much in the waking food coma to get it all in.

“Okay, county famous,” Trixie admitted. “They just so good and warm and filling, they made couch potato sweeties out of every one of my girlfriends who’s tried ‘em.” Jess sucked down the last hit of weed. “Whut?” she drolled, in a daze. Trixie began to refill the glass piece immediately.

“Sweet Tater Girls, you might have seen their reality show on TV?” The banjo fetishist shook her clouded, blazed head. It was some powerful pot.“Oh, that’s right, it doesn’t have its nationwide premiere on Oxygen for another month. I got confused ‘cuz their tie-in ads for Revlon and Kit-Kat have already dropped into all the major soap operas.”

Jess didn’t catch all of that, but what she did seemed kind of nutty. What interest would a big cable network have in a podunk burg like this? Maybe this boisterous, shame-ignoring lady was just exaggerating—probably more like Oxygen webisodes or something, where they’d have to hock corporate junk. She grinned, feeling her eyes getting puffy and itchy. She’d have to remember to blog about all this hilarity.

Trixie wiped a bit of mayo off her chin and stopped and stared at the girl for a second. It would probably be better to not be so admissive, the Entertainment Czar surmised. She was a cute little stoner, and something about the very idea of any show with that name had sent her into a fit of chortles. “I’ll tell you about it after I get started fixin’ you your proper meal,” Trixie assured her.

Jess drifted and tried to imagine what that program could possibly entail. The potency of the strain and how much she smoked had trickled into her at first, but the high was now cascading all throughout her brain and body like TV fuzz. She hadn’t felt this faded or this good in quite a while, if ever.

She closed her eyes and the first image that came to her, for whatever toasted reason, was of herself, dolled up shoeless in bobby socks, and a tight, suggestive yellow mod dress. Only for some reason, her waist sloped a bit more cinched in, accentuated by a chunky cow-print belt. Her legs looked better, too, longer and healthier, like the gams of a classic B-movie starlet.

It was less playful imagination and more like a dream or a vision as it went on. Glancing down to compare virgin pot bellies with another townie girl, her eyes skittered down at the creamy crease of cleavage that lounged on her chest, much too sumptuous to be really be hers. A dog and cameraman had their respective sights on her daydream boobs, too.

She winked and blew a kiss at both. The puppy hopped up to her neck and slobbered heavily on the tit-distressed cloth of her snappy rayon number. Jess had the blurry urge to present a nipple to it. She just loved being a reality TV star.

When she opened her drugged lids, that bountiful woman from the bar was shotgunning another hit into her, and she immediately lost track of her fleeting, vintage vision. She let the smoke seep out slow and white. “Do you think you could put on the AC or something?” She coughed. It was worrisome how close and comfortable the air in the room felt. Trixie instead sprayed some semi-noxious mist that smelled like marshmallow cereal. The musician coughed again.

The cherub sashayed out of the living room and back into the kitchen. It was only then that Jess realized she didn’t have anything on under that pink cotton apron. That butt looks even better with nothing on it, she admitted, in awe.

For a moment, she thought it odd that she’d flounce around like that in front of her, but whatever, they were friends now. It was her home that she had the privelege of entering, after all. She peeked into the kitchen to get a better look at the natural wonder and found her hostess bent over, rummaging for something under the sink, her full booty and slick vagina on display.

At this point it was practically undeniable that something really bizarre was going on, but an unquenchable envy at the forefront won out. It must take a huge dick to satisfy that, Jess thought. The heat she felt blotted out the knowledge that she never thought about dirty stuff like that. It was probably the weed.

She sat back down when she noticed Trixie coming back, and slurped the remainder of her shake. It was so thick and creamy and good. She almost had to chew it. Her hostess sat down on the couch almost too close, crossing her legs.

“Jess,” she began with the concern of a guidance counselor, “I want to ask you something. Where do you find the inspiration for your songs?” To the musician’s surprise, Trixie pulled out a copy of her last EP, “Zodiac Zombie”, down from her shelf. She really was a fan. It was even the first printing, on orange vinyl.

“Well,” Jess tried, letting out a strawberry-chocolate burp, “I don’t usually put too much thought into that. I just sort of let the songs come to me from my own experience.” Hearing herself say that made her feel narcissistic and hollow. For a couple moments in this apartment anyway, she had almost forgotten she’d played a show earlier in the evening. Trixie did that motherly, superior thing to Jess’s hair again.

“I just wonder, you know, because you have the voice and talent and all that, but your songs are kind of miserable.” Jess was slightly taken aback, but decided to welcome the constructive criticism of this wonder woman. “I mean, I can tell you’ve been through a lot emotionally, but... Don’t take it out on men. They’re not all bad.”

Trixie paused, stroking Jess’s chin and tilting it up to make eye contact. “You remember in the bar, when we were talking about how your boyfriend has a habit of putting unrealistic expectations on you, and then expects you to do the opposite?”

“Not really,” Jess admitted. “But it’s true.” He was the one who made her go on this stupid tour, then backed out on accompanying her at the last minute. And now he couldn’t even be reached by phone for moral support.

“You need to do something for you and only you,” Trixie gave counsel. “Something that will make you feel like the independent woman you want to project yourself as. And once that radiance is there, it never leaves, and becomes insatiable. He’ll see it even it takes other guys seeing it first.”

“I guess, sure.” What am I agreeing to? “What are you talking about? What do you suggest?” Jess wondered, honestly. It was hard to read between the lines, being super-stoned and all. “One second!” Trixie interrupted the topic at hand. “I think the rice is done.”

Jess watched that unbridled megabutt wag out into the kitchen again, then fixated on a disc stuck to the archway. It was a swirl of different shades of pink. At first she thought it was cute, if silly, but the more she looked at it, the more she wanted to look at it, get lost in it.

* * *

Trixie wiped drool off of Jess’s lip when she came back in, just like any good hostess would. It felt like it had only been a half a minute or so, but it must have been a lot longer, considering that Trixie was already putting the burrito platter down on the table, flanked on either side by two little serving dishes of guacamole and sour cream.

Jess tucked in right away, sawing off a big bite of burrito with her knife and fork.“Whoa there, cowpoke,” cajoled Trixie, nun-slapping her guest on the wrist with two fingers. “Remember what we agreed you’d do before I fed you your next course.” Jess, drooling again (this time because of the delicious size of the food), locked onto the crucifix hanging just above her hostess’s fat mams. “Mealtime prayers?” she guessed around too much saliva.

“No, silly.” Trixie took a box from behind her back and held it out. It was hair dye. Bright, brick, fake red. Sure, they were friends now, but this was too weird, in a way Jess couldn’t quite pin down. “Angelhair? The brand name is Angelhair? Like the pasta?” The woman on the box did look pretty content with the results, even if she was done up like a tramp.

“Yeah,” Trixie said, eager to get on with it, “like the pasta. It really puts some weight on a girl. All those complex carbs.” Jess looked at her, searching, mouth hanging open like a dumbass. “I’m just kidding!” Trixie laughed, even if she wasn’t kidding at all.

“Now are we gonna do this or what? It’s 4:30 in the morning already!” Jess gulped, before letting out a tiny, troubled fart. Was it really that late? Didn’t she have to get an early start tomorrow? And wasn’t her car still across town or something? It was time to put her foot down.

“No,” she said, weakening already from the aroma of the food in front of her, “I can’t do this. I didn’t sign up for this. I feel more than tended to at this point, seriously, but—”

Trixie’s eyes began to well up. “Jess, stop bein’ a spoiled bitch. This is what I get for being so hospitable. I mean, really! Smoking my weed, eating all this shit I didn’t have to make—Are you that much of a stoner that you can’t remember our simple agreement? You said you would make the committment to do something for you!”

“I guess I did, yeah,” Jess said, even though she still wasn’t sure and could have sworn she didn’t implicitly concede to hair dye. She figured she may as well just do it, as Trixie was acting so erratically now. She still had her car keys, after all. And if she didn’t like it, she could just wash it out, right?

“Come on, girl, it’ll only take a couple minutes, it’s an easy set. By the time we’re done your food’ll be cooled down enough to eat.” Jess reluctantly followed her hostess into her bathroom and sat down on a stool in front of the sink and leaned her head back, ready for her new color.

After a luxuriating shampoo, during which all Jess could see was Trixie’s belling boobs knocking back and forth as she worked her fingers through the girl’s scalp, Trixie started combing the dye through. It smelled great, like cherry candy.

“Just lean back and we’ll let it sit for a minute, that’s all it takes. I’m tellin’ you, this stuff is a miracle.” She rubbed the singer’s forehead and pinched her nose. “You’re going to be so beautiful. You really are.” She ducked down and they were face to face. Jess had to hide laughter, thinking this all very silly. It was as if Trixie wanted to kiss her.

* * *

Some time after, with the sun coming up, burritos long since finished, and more weed smoked, she wasn’t sure if she hadn’t gone through with the act.

“Okay,” Jess sighed, standing naked before Trixie. “I’m only doing this because you said my hair doesn’t match my clothes now.” She held a maroon and orange leotard in her hand and deliberated, whether to wear it or not. Why was she constantly just going along with whatever this woman told her to do? What did that have to do with independence?

She checked herself out in the mirror once she had it on. It did look pretty damn good. And it was stretchy, which was nice for her stomach, temporarily expanded from all that eating. It would be better to sleep in than her jeans. She only had one question.

“Does that hair dye always set so wavy-like?” Jess patted her hair down, or tried to. The new dye job seemed to frame her face quite well, now that she thought about it, even if she couldn’t really remember her hair settling down past her chin.

Trixie was in her bedroom, throwing empty cardboard boxes around, huffing and puffing. She could hear her new ingenue say something, but wasn’t sure what. “I’m sorry, dearie?” she called, pulling out a long, thick rubber vibe from a shoebox under her bed.

“That’s the one,” she whispered to herself. She sniffed it to see if the cherry scent was still on it. “I’m just getting you set up for bed!” she called out again, hearing it buzz on, ready to test drive it for a little bit. She turned up the hot country station and snuck the thing in, finding out if it still felt as good as she remembered.