The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It probably won’t surprise anyone that I wake up in stark terror on Tuesday morning. Everything I’d done on Monday — the balloon prank, getting Brenda off, accidentally eating Molly out, getting stripped on stage, letting Roach steal the planned marks, tricking Livia, fucking Livia, passing her around the crowd, pulling Molly into the carnal havoc — seemed brilliant at the time. I don’t do drugs, but I wonder if somehow my confidence training memetics didn’t make me feel invincible in much the same stupid way that PCP makes its users feel.

At the very least, Monday’s narrative doesn’t play nearly as well in my mind on Tuesday morning as it had while living through it. I find I can make a sick game out of it: compile a list of the top ten things I did yesterday that could permanently fuck up my job, my relationship with Livia or my legal standing. And I sit there, in bed, eyes open, ruminating on that.

After my campy, melodramatic closing statement at the Cancer Escalation, I honestly don’t remember too much. Livia and I escaped with Molly. We separated from her at some point. We ran around and hid. Mimi picked us up in Scarlet, and drove us back — not, I can see, to our hotel or the Beast, but to some different, cheap, flea-bitten motel on the outskirts. I think the two of us were a bit high, for lack of a better term, on endorphins. I remember us giggling a lot. I remember Mimi being irate, but I’m not sure why. I think the two of us crashed out early, maybe around nine PM. It’s clearly daytime now, though — so we (or at least I) have slept nearly twelve hours. I guess that makes sense, after... everything.

Livia steps into my room in bra and panties. For once I don’t care if or how see-through they may be. “Look at me,” she says.

I look, and my world shatters. Livia holds up her arms and turns slowly around, showing me. Her body is covered with bruises. There’s the bite mark on her ass, along with a slight red handprint. She stumbles slightly, her muscles weak. A cold, white-hot rage rises up in my heart then, the kind of pure blazing anger men feel when they see the body of a woman they care about bruised and battered. Then I remember why she looks like that and the anger bursts like a balloon, leaving me in freefall into a ravening abyss of despair and self-hatred. I close my eyes and just freeze. After a little while my stomach knots and I just put conscious effort into not puking.

“Marc? Babe? Is something wrong?”

Her tone... isn’t accusatory. “I’m so sorry,” I say.

“For what?” she asks.

I can read women, as you well know. Really good at it. I’m just... not doing it, because I’m too caught up in my own churning emotions to think of it. But her question jostles me. I... just can not parse her. “Livia?”

“Yeah, babe?”

“What are you feeling?”

“Pretty sore, honestly.”

“No. I mean. Tell me what you’re feeling right now, emotionally. Please.”

She seems to get my desperation. “Um. Ok.”

Livia takes a moment to think. In this time, I notice how... airy and energetic her tone is. She seems more... childlike than the usual in-control, sultry game-player I know. “Amused, I guess, and a bit proud. I was just looking at all these different bruises I have. It’s... tropey? Is that even a word? I mean, I’ve read so many kinky novels where the protagonist and her dude do something rough, and then she wakes up in the morning with bruises and feels all shameful and shit. It always struck me as hackneyed writing. The first scene where the protag does something transgressive will be really hot, and then you have to skim the long indecisive bits to get to the part where this dumb bint finally embraces her inner kink and gets really dirty with the dude.

“I’ve never actually woken up with kinky bruises before, though, and doing so... amused me. It’s... not something that happens in real life. It goes in the same headspace as fighting a dragon, piloting a starship or robbing a bank holdup-style. Because cliches are both silly and hot. And then I looked at them, and I felt... proud, I guess. Like a new watermark in my sexual adventuring. It makes me feel... dirty, I guess, in a really good way. Like when I had your cum on my face. It just made me look so... scandalous, so amazingly naughty. Like I was thirteen again and just figured out how a girl can make use of a cucumber. I almost want to go get myself off again, but I actually am really sore, and still feel kind of spent. I guess. Is that what you wanted?”

I’m not listening to her as well as I should be. I try to say the most obvious thing to patch things up. “It won’t happen again. Ever. I swear.”

It’s only when I see disappointment crush the odd enthusiasm on her face that it really sets in how much I’ve misread the situation by not reading her.

“I’m not really selfish,” she says. “I mean, I know how much effort you put in to last night, both with the waiting and the... everything. I’m... I get accused of being a selfish lover. Sometimes it’s fair. It blew up my first relationship before the Trips, and I’ve heard it from Mimi on occasion. And it’s usually a fair criticism. But I’m also, I mean... I realize that. I’m willing to put just as much effort into figuring out your fantasies as you put into mine.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I say. “Like. Literally, I’m a pickup artist. I figure out what women want and give it to them. It’s something I enjoy doing. The only think I want in return is sex — and I got that. I... didn’t mean what I said that way. We’re... not communicating well. I’m in a weird mood.”

It suddenly clicks for her. “Oh my god, Marc! Are you doing the bullshit ashamed protag thing I just lampooned? Seriously? Because... this is real life and I can’t just skim chapters, so that would suck. Um. And I don’t want you to feel bummed and stuff, because I am a kind and sensitive soul that cares about her lovers and doesn’t like it when they feel bad. Yeah, that’s it.”

I chuckle in spite of myself. I don’t say anything right away, though. Both of us probably benefit from a minute to just gather thoughts.

Finally, I ask her. “Was it good? I mean, the third Decan.”

She laughs. “You really need to ask?”

Then she sees that I do need to know, to hear her say it with certainly. “Yeah. Arguably the best night of my life. Almost certainly the best single sexual encounter. It was... transcendental. I don’t have good words for it. I knew it was going to be good when you forced me into the nympho role. I... acted it and lived it, and it became real. And the crowd-surfing and groping... I came like three times during that. And then, out of nowhere, the thing with Molly... I mean, I don’t think she’d been with another woman before. It’s... something I dreamed about, just grabbing a girl like that, since that birthday party all those years ago.”

The words are an aloe to my battered psyche. The next question, however, is not. “How did you get her to, uh...”

“I just asked. I’m not sure if I should have. I... need to call her and talk to her. Later today, but before she has to go back to Summers. She was peeping the whole time. Dragging her in was... spontaneous, for both of us. I wish that Gloria and Lucy hadn’t highlighted her like that. I don’t actually know her all that well.”

Livia laughs. “Holy shit, Marc, you really are a pickup artist. I thought you arranged that with her secretly, but...”

“You heard everything I said to her. The only thing you didn’t notice was her peeping from the beginning. I may have... encouraged that with eye contact.”

Livia cackles like a maniac, with cascading peals of delight. “Wow, I mean, just... wow.”

“I hope it doesn’t have bad consequences.”

Livia shrugs. “It wasn’t like with Cathy. We didn’t hypnotize her or trick her. You told her something you wanted her to do and asked consent. She gave it. Sorting out the fallout is up to her.”

“Maybe we can still help.”

Livia shrugs. “Sure.”

“It’s not Molly I really want to talk about, though. I need to know... did I cross any lines with you? Badly, I mean? Did I hurt you at any point?”

“Um,” Livia says. “Well, the bruises hurt on a literal level, I guess, but that’s the awesome kind of hurt and while I don’t want to do it every night, if you ever feel like a repeat performance I’ll be more than eager.”

“Okay.”

“There is one thing, though. I was going to talk to you later, but since you asked... I want to first say, in the context of last night, what you did was not only appropriate but perfect. The Cancer Escalation was perfect, the symbolism of the three Decans, with giving people — including me, spontaneously — reasons to blush... it all fits together like poetry. It was wonderful. And your trick put me into a symbolically submissive role, and honestly left me fucked into such a stupor that I couldn’t be a credible stage presence. Nice accomplishment, by the way. Definitely not easy to do. So, last night, everything went perfect and I’m very, very happy with how it turned out — both as an Escalation and a personal erotic fantasy.

“But I do need to express this clearly, so you know it’s a strong red line. The Escalations, the Zodiac symbolism... these things are mine. You will not ever decide that a show is or isn’t an Escalation again, right? I don’t want you to, but if you really think you can pull off something amazingly erotic that will spoil one of our shows... I can probably get over that. We have as many shows as we need. But there are only ever going to be twelve Escalations, one for each Zodiac sign, and the reason it only gets called at the end is because it’s only an Escalation if everything is perfect.

“This is my life’s work, and I should be the only one that decides at the end that a show is actually an Escalation. This isn’t about being upstaged — I don’t mind that. We could easily script a routine where I’m humiliated or in a submissive role or something and thus can’t do the outro justice. But we’ll have hand signals or something, and before you tell the audience it’s an Escalation, you check that with me covertly to make sure I’ve signed off on it. Every Escalation has to be perfect, and I define perfect. Got that?”

“100% clear,” I reply. “Dead serious. I get what this means to you, and I’m probably one of the few people in the whole world that understands how a show like ours can be art, and can matter. I will never announce an Escalation again unless you script it, and approve it in some way once the show is over.”

“Thanks,” Livia says. “I knew you would understand.”

“Is that the only thing over the line? The crowd thing was... really stupid in a few practical ways. I want to make sure it didn’t hurt you on any level beyond the bruises.”

Livia laughs. “In retrospect, I can see how it was irresponsible. It could have started a riot. Probably not a thing to repeat, and I hope we don’t lose Summers as a venue. But... I’m still wildly happy that you did it. I mean, you tossed me into a crowd of other men to get felt up, all because you thought I would enjoy it. I’ve never had a long-term lover that would do that. Men are... men are jealous, Marc. I know you didn’t train to read men —”

“I’ve never really related to other men deeply, honestly — excluding, maybe, my grandfather. I’ve trained many men to be more confident, to pick up girls, and I think I’ve improved their lives, but I never found myself really confiding in them. My closest friends have all been female fuck-buddies. It’s just practical, I guess. Why invest in a friendship, when you can get the same things from a friendship with benefits? And other men, especially newer pickup artists and macho guys, well... women adore me, but men call me a poof or a faggot all the time.

“It’s weird, given that I’m known best for my way with the ladies. I think they don’t like flamboyancy and style, like it’s a threat to their vision of ‘real’ masculinity. They don’t want to have to compete with guys like me, so they denigrate me. But it gets me pussy, so I long ago stopped caring what male peers think and just focus on the ladies. Frankly, trading away the respect of men for the adoration of women is a wonderful deal. They make just as good friends, and it gets me laid, and that’s what really matters, right?

“So I... guess I don’t understand men that well. I’ve always thought that a real, loyal friend with benefits, one who doesn’t care how many other girls you fuck and still sticks by you... I mean, that’s the ultimate male fantasy right there. And you, I mean, we actively perv on other girls together. Bisexual girls kick so much ass. How could I be offended at you playing with other guys, when I get all that in return?”

“Well, all my other lovers haven’t thought it was such a great deal in the end. It’s on me, in a way. I love me some dominant guys, and shockingly most dominant guys assume they’re in control, and can dictate the terms of the relationship, and decide who can and can’t touch me. And they’re usually okay with the girls, but not the guys. And it’s not just men. You don’t see this side of her, but Mimi can be really, tiresomely clingy at times. It’s starting to piss me off. Between you and her, frankly, I think I may be in the process of trading up.”

“Neither of us is interested in relationships or monogamy, Livia. You don’t have to trade anything to have me. And, for the record, I like Mimi. Not sexually, but just to be around. She brightens the mood.”

Livia laughs. “Well, yes. I guess she does do that.”

I get up and order breakfast. We’re in a two-bed cheap hotel that Mimi apparently drove us to last night. I order room service for breakfast, find out there isn’t any and decide to order take-out instead. So we have Chinese brunch in bed. We’re both ravenous. It was a really intense day, after all, and we also skipped supper. Livia gets strength and color back, and my equilibrium recovers. Looking at her with a clearer head, I can see how she was amused. The bruises aren’t that bad, and I have to admit they do look kinky. The exception is the bite on her ass, which is awful. It will probably leave a faint mark. She’s already put antiseptic on while I was asleep, though.

After lunch, Livia and I curl up together. I nuzzle her in a playfully sexual way. “Oh, Marcelo,” she says. “I want to, but we can’t. I want to just spend the next three days doing nothing but having wild, kinky, acrobatic sex with you. I want to figure out your fantasies, delve into you, do all the things we couldn’t do yesterday. But... we have a show on Wednesday. We need to prep, and we apparently still need to find this Mary girl, as well as picking marks for the banana contest. I’m thinking Michelle, but we need at least one other — and ideally two. And a fresh face, a gorgeous model, would be great. So you need to be out on the prowl. I do too, I guess.”

“You’re right,” I say. “And... it’s your first Spring Break, and we just did an absolutely scandalous show. We’re local celebrities now. We both have unprecedented pickup potential at the moment. We’ll be living together for the foreseeable future, and I predict lots of exploratory fucking. But right now is not the right time to zero in on each other. We’re wasting opportunities and we need to worry about the show.”

Livia laughs. “Oh, Marc, you dog. It’s Michelle, isn’t it? Well, great! If you can bang her before Wednesday, that might actually improve the next show. Give her some of the patented eye contact you do so well in the second Decan, and it will resonate with... recent memories.”

Honestly, my eyes are for Livia at the moment. No, we’re not falling in love. At least, not in the romantic sense. You must surely be familiar with the the stock Hollywood pickup artist plotline, right? Molly — Ringwald, I mean, not Mischief — just did it on the big screen, but she’s not the first. There’s a pickup artist, he doesn’t think of girls as people, then he meets a girl who’s just as clever as he is, and she plays him and teaches him a lesson, and they fall in love, and then he has to convince her he’s a changed man, and then they live happily ever after.

Know, O Cinemaphilic Readers, that this is not that story. I’m not settling down with Livia, and I’ll still be swinging wildly by the final page. Furthermore, I think I had more respect for women than the Hollywood caricature from the beginning — and if you think Livia of all people is going to teach me an important after-school lesson in that vein, you really need to pay more attention to what you’re reading. Frankly, sometimes I’m the one that needs to rein her in a bit, when she gets a little too into her ‘lovely young ingenue’ kink.

But at the moment, I do deeply want to fall into a private sexual wonderland with Livia. It isn’t rational — as I said, there are six more days of Spring Break, and then months of us together in the Beast on the road — but it’s still tempting. Still, though... I can pull up images of Michelle, Molly, Beckie and even Brenda in my mind — and they’re pretty tempting too.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m pretty sure I have a shot with Michelle, unless last night really alienated her. And... you might have an in with Juan and Wendy. I’m willing to bet they’re back at his van, fucking, right now. You might have a nice time, if you... stroll by there in a tight bikini to check in on them.”

She laughs. “Yeah, that does sound fun. Okay, then. We’ll keep our hands off each other for another six days before we get into the real marathon-fucking I’ve been waiting for. Er, one exception, though. Melody.”

“I still need to call her.”

“Well, if she’s game, I sure am. Or Michelle, for that matter. I want to share someone, you and I, like I do with Mimi and the marks at times. I’ve been looking forward to that.”

I grin. “Agreed.”

She laughs. “So, get out there and find someone tasty!”

I stop and consider. “Actually, I think I need to boot you out. I’ve got a bunch of calls to make. All M’s, weirdly. Mimi, Melody, Michelle, Molly... and Management. Of Summers, I mean. Guess which one I’m looking forward to the least.”

“I can handle Summers.”

I want her to think I mean Summers, but the call I’m actually the most nervous about is Molly. “It’s my mess,” I say. “I’m the one who planned an impromptu sex show at their venue and didn’t warn them. Let me clean it up.”

Livia shrugs. “Okay. Don’t bend over backwards. Our brand offends venues, but we also make them big bucks. If Summers boots us, we’ll talk to the Candy Store, Button Lounge and DanceSpace. I’m dead certain one of them will grab us.”

I call Mimi — the one call I want Livia there for. I’m expecting a long conversation here, but she’s remarkably taciturn, and there’s none of her usual bubbliness in her curt, controlled voice. This is a sign that something’s wrong; I feel it in my gut. I remember how opposed to Livia being in the human ladder contest she was at the beginning — I’d forgotten that when I decided to toss her to the crowd.

I thank her for getting us out last night. It’s her job, she assures me. I ask her if she wants to come down and do a review session for the next show. Nope. I remind her about finding Jeri. She’s already on it — working harder than we are, she points out. Why are we at a new motel? Cause there was a huge crowd at Summers, and she wanted us to be safe in case anyone tracked us to the first hotel. By ‘us’, I’m pretty sure she means Livia. I ask if she wants to drive Livia to the beach. “I’m not actually a chauffeur, you know,” she shoots back. “I just play one on stage at times — when my leg lets me, anyway.”

Ow! Both Livia and I still feel guilty about that, and she knows it. “Mimi? Is there anything you want to talk about?”

“Nope.”

“Um. Okay, then. We’ll hook up this evening at seven PM to prep the next show.”

“I’ll be there.”

Click. Well, that could have gone better. I want to engage more with Mimi, but the truth is we don’t have time. I mention to Livia that Mimi seems off, kind of hurt, and ask her if she wants to talk to her. “Not really,” Livia says. “Let her sort her own shit out. In a few days things will be back to normal. She sulks when she doesn’t approve of my adventures. Just ignore it.”

That is not the way I would deal with it — but Livia’s a lot closer to Mimi than I am, so it really isn’t my business.

“Okay,” I say. “I hate to be rude, but scoot. I’ve got a bunch of calls that will be easier to make alone.”

Livia heads down to the beach. She does actually pull off a hookup with Juan and Wendy, I believe.

I call Melody. This is when I learn that the other pickup artist is her dealer, she’s already left Lauderdale and is heading to Los Angeles. We actually talk for an hour or two. Light flirting, but it’s more that I get the feeling she just wants someone to talk to for a bit. Then her next ride in the big road trip arrives, and we get cut off abruptly. I make sure she has numbers for the Trips, though.

Summers’ management proves to be a remarkably smooth conversation. The angle they seem to be taking is accepting my “simulated sex” monologue as fact. So there has been no public sex show at their venue, and never will be — just some illusionists making it look convincingly like one. Management wants confirmation that our N-VHS release will include a disclaimer that the sex was simulated — and that we will avoid showing anything that might contradict that. I talk around this, avoiding giving them that. The tapes won’t be out for over a year, though, and that reassures them. Actually, we pretty much keep up our end here — with what we show, it’s a stretch to assume simulated but still not impossible. We keep up the farcical pretense, because farcical pretenses are hot — nothing makes sex sweeter than pulling one over on censors and puritans in the process of getting it!

I broach the topic of Livia using hypnosis to give girls orgasms, as she did with Blair — an element that will be a big part of our next show. Management is actually hugely enthusiastic about this. I get the feeling that we are a huge windfall to them overall, and while they want to dodge all the problems involved with being seen as hosting a live sex show, they’re still really positive toward having us there. Just... no more sex on stage, please. That assurance I can give them. I even suspect I’m telling the truth — just not a hundred percent certain. It’ll really come down to what they define as a sex act, but I don’t work out the particulars.

Next is Michelle. She actually blows me off, albeit not in an entirely closed-door way. She doesn’t want to be on our stage again right away, after the third Decan, and isn’t quite comfortable with a private date right now either. But... she isn’t fully closed to being on the Trips in the future, she says. She did have fun in the first two Decans. She considered a hookup with Lorenzo, she confides in me, and it went really sour and vaguely frightening. Turns out he has the very stereotypical tough guy male ego, and after she made him come on stage he got pretty threatening and creepy toward her in private.

She did say she wonders what it would be like if I tried the Make Her Blush routine on her, but she wants it over the phone — and for a lot more than fifteen minutes. That definitely sounds fun... but I simply don’t have room for a four-hour block of phone sex in my schedule right now. Instead, I get Michelle to give the Trips her contact info. She apparently works out of Los Angeles, too — not really that surprising for an up-and-coming model — and is only in Lauderdale for Spring Break publicity stunts. And, while it’s been an adventure and she liked some things, last night went a bit far for her so she’s wrapping it up for this year.

So Michelle Morris goes in the Rolodex for now, along with Melody — and yes, O Expectant Reader, there is some spicy stuff with each in later volumes; just not right away.

Now the call I’m really not looking forward to. Molly.

We chat a bit. It’s pointedly vacuous and evasive on her part. She’s doing her delinquent valley girl persona full-strength. Everything is breezy and fake and she wants me to know that. I do apologize, sincerely, for both times that I pushed limits. I get a funny quip back, so I don’t push further. Finally she says, “Listen, Marcie. I need to ask you a teeny, tiny favor.”

Nice callback. “Sure,” I say. “Anything.”

“I’ve had a... thing come up. I’m bailing on my wrestling shows at Summers. Can you cover for me with Management?”

We sure can. It doesn’t surprise me she’s bailing. I suspect Livia actually was her first time with a girl. I understand why she doesn’t want to go back to the same venue and do oil wrestling before a crowd full of people who watched Livia suck her to a squirting orgasm. I wish Gloria Sun hadn’t named her right after the act — the announcers probably had no idea how spontaneous that was — but I’m not sure if it would have made a difference. I haven’t reviewed the footage and have no idea how recognizable she would be through the curtain if Gloria didn’t point her out. “I’ll get it covered, for sure.”

“Great,” she says. “Uh, they prepaid. I’ve got a contract, and I need —”

“Keep everything you were paid,” I say, “and take some time. The, uh, work as a ringer you did for us covers all the wrestling sets you would have been booked for at Summers. We can provide them another oil wrestler if necessary. I’ll make everything good with Management.”

We can? I wonder right after saying that. Well, I can probably rope some girl into doing it. I am the Lord of Seduction, after all. Or I could just do it, given how many girls apparently want to see me. But this doesn’t turn out to be needed — Summers has roster of backup wrestlers, according to Molly. Boom Boom Brandi will likely agree to an extra set. It’s only the money and her professional reputation Molly is worried about. That, I can cover.

“Thank you soooo much, Marcie!”

She does sound sincerely grateful, beneath the gimmick teen voice. “Maybe I can do you a solid in return, Marcie. I’ll be seeing Beckie later this week. I might be able to get her to give you her number. You should totally hook up with Beckie, Marcie. I think she’s into you.”

“You don’t say.”

“Yeah. I mean, I barely had to dare her at all to get her to grind your face. She said she really wanted to catch your eye...”

Oh my god, you magnificent cunt! You set me up! Fuck you, and let me fuck you! Please! I don’t say anything for a second, and having dropped her shocker on me she has the good sense to wrap things up. “Anyway, babe, gotta run. Cee-ya!”

Click.

That went a lot better than it could have. She’s flirting, and more than just as a defensive distraction — she’s probably actually horny. And she set me up with the cunnilingus during the oil pile, which makes me feel a lot better about what I pulled on her. She does need time, obviously, but I can do that for her — and it looks like I might be able to get out of another set of insane sexual hijinks with no real harm done. My luck is golden, though it will be a good while before I really clue into the true magnitude of that and realize the scale of things I can truly get away with. I suspect I’ll hear from Molly in the future, too, and look forward to it — frankly, learning that she played me makes her a lot sexier to me.

So I call up Summers management again and negotiate with them. My argument is simple — Gloria and Lucy are their employees, and should not have identified Molly’s participation in the simsex show on the air without her consent, since the crowd couldn’t identify her through the veil. Pretty sure the latter part is bullshit, but they’re quick to agree. They want us back, we have leverage. So they’ll pay Boom Boom full wages for the two oil wrestling sets Molly was booked for, and Molly gets full pay as well. Awesome! And I don’t even feel bad for Summers, as I get the feeling they’re making a killing from their partnership with us.

I press my luck a bit to take care of something else — the stagehand from the wet t-shirt contest on Sunday, who called Jeri “sweet chocolate”. I get him fired, and blacklisted. This isn’t even a favor from management — apparently his name is Dean, he likes to smoke pot on shift and he already has two reprimands — one for groping girls in a contest, and another for trying to trade a contest prize he had no authority to give away for a blowjob in the dressing room. Nice guy.

Well, he’s gone now — management just needed an excuse, and I write out a formal complaint for them. Interesting thing, though — I get to briefly talk to a DJ from Summers who took Jeri’s name down to begin with. This DJ says she gave her name as Cherry, not Jeri or Mary. But clubs are noisy, and all three names are phonetically close. I don’t think much of it at the time.

Well, that’s a solid three and a half hours on the phone. I quickly call Mimi for a sitrep. She’s done great work with parabolic mikes on beach towers. We now know “Mary’s” name is Jeri, and we have a list of places she was sighted, mostly along the beach. I call a cab and check out of the motel.

Time to hit the beach!

I meet the trio of New Century Swimstyles models on the beach while scouting around for Jeri. They’re shooting a Budweiser girlie calendar, and being fairly public about it. And, I don’t mind saying, they look fine. Fort Lauderdale and Spring Break in general is absolutely obsessed with the bikini. Now, there’s nothing wrong with that — as I hope my narrative to date has conveyed, the bikini is a magnificently sexy garment for a woman to wear. But when it is the sole focus of everything around, other equally provocative apparel can too easily be forgotten.

NCSS as a company has always been associated with the one-piece swimsuit, and these three ladies are an excellent example of how to wear it breath-takingly. They’re in their mid-twenties. I would say they could be supermodels — but I know that particular career path starts at a very young age and has some other demanding (and, honestly, unhealthy) requirements. Further, while not as stacked as Livia or a lot of other girls I’ve seen at Spring Break, I think all three might still have had a bit too much up top to be the next Kate Moss.

I only see them from a distance at first, of course. The way the shoot is set up is conspicuously intended to draw the attention of beach-goers, but security’s vigilant and nearly oppressive. I do meet the gaze of the tallest of the three models several times from the beach, however, and give her a bit of my famous eye-tricks without getting too obscene with it. I’m just playing, honestly — I never expect to meet any of these models. The vast NCSS and Budweiser logos are omnipresent and physically immense, and far more of an aggressive eyecatch than the models themselves.

It’s clever marketing, in retrospect — how NCSS cordons off part of the beach in the busiest time of year to shoot a calendar, and puts giant obtrusive banners and vigilant security everywhere. The trio of girls are absolutely ravishing, but so were the oiled models I was buried under yesterday, and literally thousands of other girls flaunting it all on the beach.

But NCSS markets the shit out of them, saying, Can’t you tell these girls are the hottest, most elite girls anywhere? After all, those other bikini babes are out on the beach with schlubs like you, whereas these important models won’t come near you! Most guys are not as well versed in the psychology of attraction and branding as a professional pickup artist, or see women as status symbols rather than people (or, to be less complementary and more honest about my own lifestyle, as sensual experiences). They fall for NCSS’ marketing hook, line and sinker — they believe these are the Lamborghini Testarossas of women... and I wonder if the Trips can’t make use of that mystique somehow.

It would be a godsend for the show if I could snare on of these girls. More than simple libido, I think my primary motive in messing about with them in the first place is trying to hit one out of the park in terms of roping a prestige volunteer for the Trips. Being able to contribute to a new, young startup enterprise through one’s own skills and merits is the essence of the American Dream. Being able to do this by picking up girls is as satisfying as it is surreal. I want to really prove myself, amaze Livia and show her what I’m capable of. I want to be able to say decisively that a specific portion of the Trips’ recent success is my work, and couldn’t have been done by anyone else. And... I always like a challenge, especially when that challenge fills out a swimsuit the way these girls do.

Still, it’s a long shot — trying to seduce a stranger from a hundred yards away with only my gaze and my fashion sense. I’m genuinely surprised to meet one of the models in person not three hours later, once their shoot has wrapped up. Her name is Sandra Venturi, and she’s dressed in fashionable but relatively modest street clothes.

I’m wearing my favorite beach outfit — pristine tan designer slacks cut to beach trunk length (with a professionally-tailored hem), tight enough to be appealing but not crude, over a Speedo as underwear, tied off with a snakeskin leather belt and a custom Trips-insignia brass buckle. I’ve got my designer sunglasses, my tan beaver-felt fedora and nothing up top — I can show my fashion sense and also my chiseled abs, muscled calves and chest hair at the same time.

I don’t oil myself the way the body-builders do when showing off, but I do use a sun-cream that makes my skin shine in a slightly more subtle way — somewhat like a low-key sweat sheen. The key to really making the whole ensemble sing, though, is to get the hat to match the slacks, and the hat-band to match the belt. I like to think I look more suave than the shaved, waxed and oiled muscleboys of Spring Break, but also classier and more trustworthy than the real rough-edged gang types.

It’s not the most revealing thing you can wear to the beach, but I think it’s among the most appealing to women. When a man looks at a woman, there’s no such thing as too much skin or too scantily clad — we want to see it all, as soon as she’s willing to show it. The reverse isn’t true by default — the majority of the girls I’m into have no initial desire to see me in a nuthugger; they need to form some kind of more nuanced interest in me as a person first. (The bare chest, on the other hand, does seem to attract the feminine gaze and make a good first impression.) Sandra apparently falls into this category — and appreciates my efforts.

“You know,” she says in exasperation, “I am so tired of every guy I meet telling me how great I look in a tight swimsuit — so I find it oddly satisfying to be able to turn the tables on a man for once.”

I correctly parse her intentionally circuitous compliment — I’m literate and a quick thinker, unlike most of the easy-on-the-eyes Spring Break lunkheads — and make small talk with her. She seems... normal. Her Aura is not going wild or anything, but she also isn’t cold — she has a healthy libido. I fess up to what I’m doing in Fort Lauderdale fairly quickly, using agile self-deprecation to not seem too sleazy while describing the Trips show I host as tawdry. “I’m not a total sleazoid,” I tell her, “I just play one on TV.”

She laughs as I describe some very mild forms of what we get up to and doesn’t seem repulsed. There is no immediate “let’s hook up” vibe, though, which to be honest I get from most of the girls I take the time to chat up at Fort Lauderdale. She is genuinely intrigued, but also cautious. I’m shocked to say I get her number.

Now, I told you earlier how astonished we were that Cathy had come through all the things we did to her intact (in social terms) and content. Livia has a great voice, and I like listening to her, and she’s in fact said the exact same thing about me. And you’ve heard some of our grandiose justifications about being Providers of Deniable Consent, indulging fetishes without hurting people and so forth. The truth is, at this point specifically Livia and I are buying into our own hype.

We had been very cautious with Cathy, in terms of doing research, figuring out what she wanted and figuring out how it would impact her. We are not equally cautious with the NCSS models, or NCSS in general, until it is too late. Admittedly, we have a real tight timeline here and rush things to get a better second Summers show tomorrow. Yes, O Nervous Readers, this is the part of the story where we make a big mistake. It will still turn out alright in the very long run, albeit with a lot of effort on our parts — but in the short term, we’re about to fuck up royally.

I call Mimi from a beachside payphone and check in with her. She caught Jeri before I even met Sandra in person. Jeri will be at DanceSpace around seven tonight. I’m to go there, talk her up and try to get her onboard for the third Decan tomorrow. I think I can pull that off; I remember her Aura. Mimi passes the phone to Livia, and I tell her about meeting an NCSS model, and she demands I call her back immediately. Being a professional pickup artist, I explain to her that no, a guy does not call a girl within an hour of getting her number. It just doesn’t work like that. We are not idiots and do remember Roni — the sorority girl at the Noodle who had been an NCSS model and got fired after we got her cans out.

We thus know there will be some boundaries, but are still thinking about the potential of getting three “extra classy” swimwear models involved with the Trips. I will admit that the three of us do spend an hour “brainstorming” what routines we could do to three “good girl” swimsuit models at Summers, and that in this context “brainstorming” may be read as engaging in some deeply tasteless, depraved and lurid mutual fantasies. It... seems to get Mimi cheerful again, so that is at least something. I mention this only because in retrospect, I wonder if it may have created a kind of optical illusion, making the plan we actually do settle on seem less depraved than it actually was. In my defense, I’m mostly using speculative ideas to flirt with Livia at this point and don’t think the NCSS models will ever come near the show in reality.

I get to DanceSpace around 6:30, and wait for Jeri. I look pretty slick — black silk dress shirt, black silk tie, black silk dress pants, gleaming white Bally dress shoes and a Yves Klein blue melton blazer with crisp white lapels and equally crisp white buttons. It’s the accessories that really make the outfit pop, though: the Gargoyles ANSI sunglasses, the silver ankh earrings and the ornate ivory periapt in the center of the collar right below my throat. The latter looks like just another oval spot of crisp whiteness to offset the outfit’s otherwise dark colors — until you look closely, and see the subtly obscene yoni-and-lingam design carved on it. My wavy blonde hair’s wrapped up in a ponytail below the neck, but still fluffed out enough above that to have a bit of volume.

Jeri arrives shortly after I do, escorted by a more homely female friend, a white girl. She’s wearing a gorgeous, tight green sequined cocktail dress. It’s both classy and risqué, but a bit old-fashioned. Her Aura is still strong, but she’s being really reserved. I get the feeling she came here for pickup herself — she wants a Spring Break adventure, and I don’t think she’s gotten laid yet, or at least not in a way that satisfied her. But her confidence meter is pushed all the way down, and she’s fighting with herself about this, and if nobody makes a move she’s just going to nurse one drink after another and slink off home.

I can actually relate to that — it was a common experience for me, before I worked out all my confidence-boosting mind tricks. But it’s probably not the same for her. Lauderdale Spring Break is a really white scene overall, with a slight mixing of Hispanic cultures due to basic Florida demographics. I scan DanceSpace, mentally checking — well over a hundred people, all told, and she’s the only one with a melanin quotient. It’s a stark contrast to Savannah, where like a third of the party girls were black or mixed-race. That can’t make the bar game any easier, and I admire her for even being here.

I signal a waiter, give him a twenty and get him to deliver her a drink — a piña colada. He points me out. She looks up. I meet her gaze. She blinks in shock, recognizing me. She glances up and down, appreciating me. She whispers furiously back and forth with her friend. I get the impression the friend is her wingman, pumping her up. Actually, the friend might be cuter than I thought at first glance — she’s just dressed frumpy to create a deliberate contrast with Jeri’s glamour-look. Good wingman, or wing-lady in this case. I wonder if Jeri does the same thing for her when she’s scouting for a pickup. Probably.

Jeri walks over to me. She knows how to tilt her hips, to make a girl walking in a cocktail dress very appealing to watch. The dress does seem a slight bit ill-fitted, though — Jeri’s thin, and the waist measurement is probably large by an inch or two. “Mister Knight,” she says. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you. I’m Jeri. Thank you for the drink.”

And this is where things get weird. I’ve obviously done lots and lots of pickups in my life, but this is the first one where the opening topic is going to be “hey, was that you I heard about fucking a Clubhouse Treat in a live sex show in front of a thousand people last night?” Actually, though, she doesn’t bring that up — at least, not right off. She’s really struggling here and I can tell conversation is going to be a bit awkward. Her Aura is flickering — really horny, but also real problems with confidence, self-esteem and social mores. So, let’s skip the small talk. I wonder if she wants to be seen with me, or be as anonymous as possible. Well, her dress is brightly-colored and memorable, so I’ll gamble on the former. “Would the lady honor me with a dance?”

Her face lights up. “Sure!”

She leans down and takes a big swig of the drink, draining almost a third in about five seconds. Her lips — plump and flush with lipstick — purse in a very sensual way over the straw and she meets my gaze as she drinks. She’s flirting, but I suspect from the desperate chug also trying to increase her alcohol level, and thus confidence, with a last minute shot before going out on the dance floor. They call it liquid courage for a reason, after all!

I do one song with her in a relatively modest fashion. Jeri holds me close and really seems to enjoy it, and I signal enjoyment back — but I’m actually figuring out how well she can dance. I want to elevate her, after all, not humiliate her if she has two left feet. But she’s actually really good — not a stripper, but she does dance. And me? Of course I can dance. This is my home territory, after all.

After the slow song some livelier music hits the floor, and I start pulling some flashier moves. Jeri keeps up. She’s really good at technical dancing, which is great for the idea I’m getting. There are other women in the club trying to make eye contact with me. There’s a bit of snickering and whispering — after last night, there would have to be — but the female interest seems positive. It’s largely fake, though — most of the other girls are interested in status, gossip and vain competition with other disco babes, not actual cock.

Third song. It’s Billy Idol’s cover of Mony Mony — perfect! I take Jeri by the wrist and pull her out onto the illuminated rainbow grid at the center of the discotheque. She’s more confident now, after the second song, and I use careful body language to bolster her, drawing her attention away from anyone looking at her scornfully. We’re going to tear up the dance floor, Dirty Dancing style. And we do, complete with some sweeping dips and me holding her aloft and spinning her in the air like in said film.

Okay, I can’t say the dancing is technically perfect — it’s spontaneous, we have no choreographer or rehearsals with the song, she’s good but not that good — and while I’m better (maybe), I’m still not a pro dancer. And I’m still sore from last night. So some steps are missed, but no one notices. We’re the rock stars of the hour, and maybe even the night. I’m really glad I don’t fuck it up, and thankful for my luck, because it seems to have an impact on Jeri.

She’s glowing. She looks euphoric. I’ve told you about sussing out women’s fantasies, right? Well, not all of them take as much effort as I put into the claiming of Livia. She would love to dance like that with me for another six or seven songs, I’m sure, but I have other ideas. I take her by the wrist and lead her off the dance floor. It’s too loud to talk, but she gives me an imploring look and resists, and we almost have a small tug-of-war on the radiant grid — but she relents. I don’t think anyone noticed that, which is good — I want that glamourous moment, ripped right out of a movie, to be perfect. For her — it isn’t as big a thing to me.

I am very rarely domineering when the context isn’t one of kink. In this case, however, I make an exception. I wanted to give Jeri a moment I thought she’d enjoy. I’m pretty sure I succeeded. But we need to leave the club — immediately. The women trying to catch my gaze during the second song are now staring at Jeri with seething anger and derisive contempt. I feel they are right on the edge of hurling some truly venomous social abuse at her. I wonder how many are jealous of her personally, and how many are just angry that a black girl was dancing with the guy they perceive as most desirable or novel.

Worse still, some are whispering to men — large men. Now, I’m a guy that can unironically use the phrase “I’m a lover, not a fighter”. I’m flamboyant, dressing to catch the eye. Pickup artists call that “peacocking”. But more traditional guys, they don’t like peacocks. We make women happy. We read GQ and dress accordingly. We actually know what a clit is. We out-compete them. No self-respecting macho bar stud can stand being out-competed by a five five sweet-talker, even if the girls he paws at in a drunken stupor never end up going home with him anyway. And these guys have a traditional method of avoiding that competition and dealing with peacocks: they use their fists. I’ve learned to read the crowd in a drinking establishment, to have a sense of when that dynamic is close to coming into play. And it is.

Mimi’s nowhere near DanceSpace, but I feel I owe her some credit none the less. When she taught me basic Krav Maga, the first lessons were all about situational awareness and evaluating threats. That comes into play here. I can already feel some of my readership getting their heckles up at me: he ought to be a man. He ought to stand up and fight for the girl. That’s what a real man would do.

Bar fights are not fun hijinks, kiddoes. They’re a lot like nuclear war, really — the only winning move is not to play the game. You don’t get to be the protagonist of Road House. There are no winners, only different ways to lose. And if you’re a peacock, they’re worse — chances are better than even you’re going to get dogpiled, and no amount of fighting skill will save your ass. There’s a real chance for me to get hospitalized here.

Even getting a solid black eye would be bad, though — it would do all kinds of bad things to the tone of the show tomorrow, if I could even attend, and undercut my charisma and stage presence. It would also make a bit we had planned for the second Decan... way darker than we intended it to be. And while I’m curled up in a pile of blood and possibly spitting out teeth, the women would come up and... say things to Jeri. And given what I’ve figured out about Jeri, that might do long-term damage comparable to the punches. So, there are lots of different reasons to bolt.

Jeri and I abscond. I run over, grab her purse and we leave. I think we still make a glamourous exit, not a craven-looking one — people are in the process of whispering and organizing a beatdown when we slide out. “I’m so sorry,” I say to her. “I know you were having fun. The club got mean fast. They weren’t happy with me stealing the spotlight. We dodged a fight. Do you have a car here?”

“Yeah, that brown Buick over there.”

“Care to drive me out? Quickly?”

“What about —”

“I’ll get my car tomorrow. It’s just a rental.”

So I bail with her.

“Sorry about that,” I say. “I was just trying to be all charming and impress you.”

“You did a great job,” she says without sarcasm.

“I... wouldn’t come back to this specific club. I think the local girls are a bit jealous of you.”

I don’t want to mention race. She nods, though, and I think she takes it seriously. She’s still in good spirits. She loved the dance, and missed the brunt of the social venom. To her, this is an adventure!

We drive a ways, and finally pull over by a warehouse. It’s a pretty deserted area, though we can still hear the faint rhythmic pulse of the incessant Lauderdale nightlife. I suspect she chooses the stop in the hopes of some classic backseat action, but I’m more interested in conversation right now. Besides, backseat sex is not as pleasant as the movies may have taught you (though an automotive makeout can be a nice way to start — just not a great final destination). Jeri’s quality, and when I take her I want a clean room and a soft bed to go with the gorgeous collegiate babe.

I make small talk with her a bit. Well, at her a bit — I talk more, at least until she gets into it and feels more comfortable. I mention that I’m part of a naughty magic show, a novelty act here in Lauderdale — I know she’s heard about last night, but she hasn’t actually said so yet. “That sounds so exciting.”

“It can be,” I say, “and it gets pretty risqué. Women... tend to lose some clothing when they come on our stage, and not always in the way they expect. So do we, sometimes. Lots of embarrassment, but it’s all playful and fun.”

“I wish I was at your show last night,” Jeri says. “I’ve heard a bit about it. I feel like I missed a cultural touchstone there.”

“I... know why you weren’t. I was at Summers, on Sunday. I really wish I had a chance to see you compete — you would have looked incredible in a wet t-shirt — but I can also see why you left.”

She stammers. “They... they couldn’t even get my name right. It was terrible. I just... I wanted to do it, but not like that. Not when I would be a joke contestant, a footnote.”

“The stagehand, Dean, was a real dipstick,” I say. “I actually complained to management and got him fired. Last night was really popular, and the Sexy Scandal Spectacular has some leverage with Summers now.”

“Wow,” she says. “Oh, wow, you did that for me?”

“Partly. I may have some ulterior motives.”

“And tonight was so amazing,” Jeri says. “It was... magical. Wow, that’s cliché. Sorry.”

“Jeri, you should know this right out. I do romantic really well, when I want to. I’d love to fulfill all your romantic fantasies, from disco dancing to classy sunset beach walks to baths filled with rose petals. But... it’s fantasies. I’m a player, and I’m not going to fall in love. There are a lot of different women in my —”

“Marcelo?”

“Yes?”

“I have confidence issues, not brain damage.”

Yeowch! Her sarcasm is actually pretty sexy, honestly, in part because it’s so unexpected. “Noted.”

“That bath sounds fun, though. Let me guess — heart-shaped red hot tub?”

I laugh. “We don’t actually have one of those. It’s on the wish list, though.”

“You did all this... Dean, the dancing, everything... to get in my panties? I mean, I’m not shooting you down — just the opposite. I... you could just stare at me with those eyes a bit and my panties would pretty much just fall off. Just sayin’. Not that, I mean —”

I look at her. Yeah, that way. I mean, who could resist an invitation like that? Mind you, I’m very slow and gentle with her. Imaginary hands slide over her shoulders and down her arms. An imaginary ankle grazes her own, and her own legs slide apart a bit in response. Phantom fingers run through her hair, down the sensitive spots on her neck and along the sides of her breast — only teasing at touching it. When I lick my lips, she clearly perceives something on her inner thigh, leaning back without realizing it — yet never breaking eye contact with me.

The soft, throaty moan that escapes her slightly open lips, in contrast, is very real — and very sexy. But I don’t want to push this too far here and now — I need her anticipation to tempt her to come to tomorrow’s show.

“Making your panties fall off sounds... extremely enjoyable, but I need to be honest. It’s not my only motive. I want to extend an invitation to you.”

“And... you want me to be on your show?”

“Yup. If you’re interested.”

She’s suddenly more cautious — though I can see she’s also deeply intrigued. “I’m not sure I can go through with it. How do I know I won’t end up humiliated again?”

“Humiliating girls is actually a trend on the Sexy Scandal Spectacular, but we do it a lot differently than that asshole Dean did.”

“What do you mean? Are you going to humiliate me?”

I nod. “Probably. If you agree to come on the show, I mean.”

That’s obviously not the answer she expected. “You seemed so nice,” she tells me.

“Well, I actually am,” I say. “That’s why I told you the truth.”

“Then why humiliate me?”

“It’s a bit complex,” I explain. I’m actually being really forthright here. When I write this down, in retrospect, it sounds like I’m blowing pseudo-philosophical smoke up the young lady’s ass, but I’m actually expressing what I really mean, and why we do the things we do. “You know how sometimes, in the bedroom, the man spanks the woman? Or vice versa?”

“I’d let you spank me,” she says, “if I could get in your bedroom.”

That was probably more blunt than she wanted; like I said, she’s awkward, and she flinches slightly as soon as she says it, realizing how much the line didn’t land. It also leaves me with no clue of whether she thinks spanking is actually hot, or just something she’d put up with to get some vanilla action from me. But it’s a derail, so I just gloss over it. “Yeah, like that. When the man does it, he might be causing the girl a small amount of real pain, but that’s not the point or intent. It’s a ritual, a fetish. The literal result of the spanking might be pain, but the actual result, in context, is sexual pleasure derived from a more indirect source than just stimulating the genitals. Human beings are weird like that. At least, some are. Not everyone likes that kind of thing.”

I see the look in her eyes and feel the need to direct things. I don’t just want flirting here, I want her to understand what I’m saying — so she can actually decide if she wants it or not. “You don’t have to like what I like to ‘get me’, Jeri. Just so you know that. But I need to explain why the show does what it does.”

She nods and seems more thoughtful, so I continue. “When I say we’ll humiliate you, I don’t mean we’re going to denigrate or degrade you. I mean we’re going to take that emotion, embarrassment, and use it as part of a scripted routine that will make people — the audience, and also hopefully the participants — feel sexual pleasure. Fetish humiliation is just like spanking, except the pain applied is social rather than physical. All the games, the tricking girls — it’s not to degrade them. It’s like the spanking. It’s to give everyone a thrill, a sexual thrill.”

“Oh,” she says. “When I feel embarrassed, it’s... uh, it’s not a sexual thrill. And I feel embarrassed a lot.”

“I bet we can make it a thrill. Do you want it to be?”

“I... don’t know.”

“Well, when you turn an emotion into a fetish, it often doesn’t have as much power over you outside the sexual realm as it used to. It’s sexy, erotic, and therefore positive, and that cancels some of the negative power of the real thing. It’s like redirecting a river — we help you trick your own mind, and then the mental energy that used to make you feel anxiety or self-hatred is instead used to make you feel, well, horny. At least, that’s what Livia thinks. She designed our third Dec—, er, our third routine tomorrow around that. The idea being, you take someone that’s shy, or self-conscious, and you use hypnosis to make that into a fetish, a source of pleasure. And then you have some really kinky fun with that. When it’s all finished, the subject won’t be as shy anymore and will have more confidence.”

“Does... does it actually work like that?” Jeri asks.

“Sometimes,” I say. “We’re learning as we go.”

“I don’t want to be a ‘sweet chocolate treat’,” Jeri says. “I don’t want to be the disposable girl who the announcer can’t even remember the name of. I want people to notice me.”

“I have noted every word you just said to me solemnly,” I reply. “Look. I’m not a hypnotist; I’m more the sexy assistant. Livia is a really, really skilled hypnotist. I can attest from personal experience that she can humiliate a person with hypnosis, and that person will find it to be a positive experience after the fact. It was for me, and it was for... one other notable girl I know fairly well. And therapists really do make changes to people’s psyches with hypnosis. You’ve surely heard about it being used to help people quit smoking, or get over phobias.

“Now, and I need to stress this, Livia is not a certified therapist. No one would ever approve our methods before a formal medical board, and the truth is, they’re not all that tested. But... she’s at least working with a potent toolset. So I can’t promise you that you’ll be more confident if you do decide to join the show, and I can’t even really promise we won’t screw it up somehow and end up causing you real trauma and the not-fun kind of humiliation.

“But there are some things I can promise you. No matter what else happens, I assure you that we will make you the star of the show. You will be the focus girl of the third Decan, the climax of our show tomorrow. We will make people notice you and remember you. We will not make any reference to your ethnicity. And we will get your damn name right.”

She grins, delighted. “That sounds so awesome. And it will be... sexy?”

“Yeah. Very sexy.”

“Last night, I heard that you, uh...”

“There won’t be any live fucking tomorrow. You might get... felt up a bit. Not like Livia did, though. And I believe Livia can use hypnosis to make you orgasm, and will do so. Are you up for that?”

“Sure,” Jeri says. “It sounds really fun.”

There’s a moment of silence.

“Marcelo?”

“Yes?”

“I... want to be that girl. The kind that could do... you know... what you and Livia did last night. It seems both glamourous and terrifying. I mean,” she adds quickly, nervously, “not that I would want to do what you did right away, that night, in public. But I want to have it in me, so that when it’s the right time and it... feels right to me, I could just go and do it, and not freeze up.”

I nod quietly. Her articulating that desire so sincerely thrills me to my core. I was absolutely right about Jeri; she’s the perfect girl for our show. But I can’t promise her that Livia will make her into something she isn’t already, so I just keep quiet and give her time to think.

“If I do sign up for your show, would you go out with me after the show? On a date, I mean. And, uh, show me a good time.”

“I’ll tell you what. I’ll go out with you regardless. I don’t think tomorrow night is the best option, if you’re in the show, but I will be very happy to show you a good time — and, if you want, my cock — any night of your choice. We’re in town for the whole of Spring Break, and a day or two after.”

“Okay. I just thought I might be, uh... feeling sexy... after this show. You know, newly confident and stuff.”

“You’ll actually probably be a bit exhausted. Trust me on this. But if you want a dream date, I’d love to give you one. Even that night — or a rain check. You can pick after the show.”

She contemplates this a bit, and I see her “okay, what the hell are you bastards planning to do to me?” look. But she’s still enthusiastic in spite of it.

“Don’t tell me if you’re in now. Here’s our number. Sleep on it. Think about this conversation and give us a call by noon tomorrow. The time is important — if you don’t call by noon, we’ll need to make other plans. If you’re in, we’ll pick you up.”

Livia will hate that. It’s way too close to the deadline. But I do really want Jeri to think on it. We are going to publicly humiliate her, after all, and she has some confidence problems. Of course, if we have to, we can pull a girl out of the audience. Maybe Wendy would be up for it. But she wouldn’t be the perfect subject; she’s already confident and has no hang-ups, and it wouldn’t all be new with her. Jeri is, and it would be, and she wants it. She’s everything we’ve been hoping for.

I feel confident she’ll say yes, anyway — I just want her to have the space to do it on her own.

I call Sandra Venturi back in the late evening and we chat. She’s surprisingly normal and upbeat. I pitch the idea of appearing on the Sexy Scandal Spectacular to her, and am not immediately shot down. I’ll always remember her best line, echoing the one I used on her — “I’m not a total good girl,” she says. “I just play one on TV.”

Her two friends, Regan Michaels and Tracy Ponderosa, are apparently at least vaguely curious as well. It’s spelled out very early in the conversation that there will be no nudity. There will be no surprise wet t-shirts, no swimsuits that turn sheer under a specific light, no oddly-angled cameras or peeping into changing rooms. I promise her this, and mean it — and we never try anything like that.

The girls each have what they call a Grade IV model contract — that’s pretty much full-time work, and pays a fixed minimum of 36,000$ a year. Hot damn! It’s also the level, she tells me, where NCSS girls start getting to hob-nob with Hollywood types and work for photographers who do crossover work with Sports Illustrated — and sometimes have models cross over with them. It is, needless to say, a very big deal. But it also only lasts a year, and unless a model does something to stick out within that year she’ll get dumped in preference for fresh new faces. It’s a pretty ruthless game.

NCSS above all wants its models, called the Daughters of the New Century, to be desired. They have to be classy, but they have to be desired. I’m at least honest with her on that point: “Our show is not classy. At all. You have been warned.”

Sandra laughs. “Successful NCSS girls have gone on Howard Stern,” she says. “They just avoid letting him talk them into doing something stupid.”

“How would you feel about being a punchline? I mean, if we humiliated you, but in a sexy way.”

“No nudity.”

“Yeah. Working within that. No nudity.”

“It could work,” she says. “NCSS girls won’t ‘play along’ on stage, but we also can’t be held to blame if you and your crew decide to pull a frat boy move. If you do something really crude, we’ll get all huffy and leave the stage — even if, inside, we do find it amusing. Where exactly are you going with this?”

Now, as I said, Livia and I have spent a few hours last night dreaming up weird, lurid and depraved scenarios — a few of which were outright cruel and not fit to print here — but that was mostly just us fantasizing and heating each other up about what we’d secretly like to do. But Livia fixated on a number she has been preparing for a while, which I also quite like — it’s already our plan for the second Decan and had a lot of prep behind it; we just hadn’t planned to use it on girls this classy. It’s reasonable, though, and we have the props and script ready.

I sketch out the loose outline of what we have in mind to Sandra. I am, inwardly, very enthusiastic at this point and I likely make it sound a good bit less rude than it really is. I believe I said Livia would “convince” rather than “hypnotize” the audience — you’ll see what I mean in Chapter Sixteen. And there’s definitely no mention of the special climax bit, because Livia cooks that up after this phone call. Well, she adds it to the bit after this phone call — the props have been ready for a while. “Sandra, if Livia pulls this off as well as she thinks she can, some guys in the audience will probably get off. I mean, literally. That’s the punchline.”

Sandra, however, seems honestly amused... and possibly even vaguely turned on. “We’ll obviously have to stalk off stage in a huff if that becomes too overt,” she says. “But it’s... appealingly naughty and crass; some shock value might be just the kind of thing we so desperately need to get noticed and move up. As long as what you’ve said about taking the full blame is true, I think it fits inside the bounds of what a Daughter of the New Century can get away with. After all, you’d be doing it to us — it’s not like we agreed to it. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. And, beyond that... I think for credible deniability it’s probably in our interests if we don’t know too much about what you’re going to pull off beforehand. I understand spontaneity is good for your show, anyway.”

“Okay,” I say, “but are you, personally, comfortable with it? How does Sandra Venturi feel about being on the receiving end of an exploitative prank?”

“Well,” she says, “I always say in all my interviews I like expanding my horizons and testing my limits. Beyond that... well, I don’t think expressing my true feelings on the matter would be in my professional interest.”

It’s such a chaste, formal sentence — but the way she says it, and what it implies, sends shivers of fetish electricity up my spine. She certainly doesn’t mean to convey her feelings are negative — just that she doesn’t want to admit they are positive. I don’t know how much my own fantasies and kinks are clouding my judgement here, but I imagine that she’s secretly anticipating how we are going to pull the rug out from under her, make the routine naughtier than it first appears, even looking forward to being on the receiving end of a punchline that would seem cruel on the surface but could potentially advance her career. What a perfect, golden opportunity!

I honestly don’t remember anything at all from the conversation after that — I do some performative mild flirting and small talk while my real mind drowns in feverish fantasy scenarios. It doesn’t matter, anyway — by this point, the deal is pretty much ironed out.

I do remember expressing a concern to Livia after saying goodnight to Sandra. “We’ve worked hard to get ‘girl appeal’,” I say. “Aren’t you concerned that this routine might be alienating to the girls?”

Livia chortles uproariously. “Marc, have you ever seen a soap opera in your life?! Trust me, there is nothing in this world girls love more than seeing other girls — especially those with superior social standing and a holier-than-thou attitude — getting knocked down a peg or two in a melodramatic and salacious way. NCSS has invested so much marketing effort in telling men that NCSS girls are better than any other girls. Well, other girls notice that messaging too, you know — and we’re going to make ruthless use of that. This goes double for the kind of hot, loose girls that are dead center in our target demographic. Classy rich girls have looked down on loose girls forever — this is going to be some Freudian, Revenge of the Nerds grade catharsis for my gender. At least the parts of it I empathize with, anyway.”

Livia and I get up early, around seven. There’s a lot of prep to do. The first Decan props are all ready — the first Decan being by far the most prop-oriented of the three. She has devices to reconfigure for her planned climax to the second Decan, though. But that isn’t what’s on her mind.

We have a long conversation about Jeri. Mimi does a very rapid background check. The talk is very analytical, even... clinical. Know, O Disturbed Reader: the Trips are not role models. We are kind of insane about our fetishes and our show, and I’m not saying the way we approach it is always healthy or ethical. You’re free to think of us as creepy. Sometimes, in retrospect, I think of us as creepy. So, that out of the way, I’ve mentioned that Livia has a background in forensic psychology, right? Well, what we are doing is basically forensic psychological profiling, just like they do in all the serial killer flicks. It’s just, instead of trying to predict a killer we are trying to figure out the most optimal and dramatic way to get a girl off — and to have that moment be a thing that will be really raw, but also that the audience (and especially the hot girls within it) will relate to.

And yeah, we go into some kinds of focus-group marketoid territory too — Livia subscribes to many of the same publications as network ad executives, and she can quote statistics about what appeals to different genders, age cohorts, ethnicities and social classes. There’s no formal band for hot kinky bisexual girls in marketing and how they specifically respond to different kind of pitches and stimuli, but Mimi and Livia have been working on a cross-correlated custom Lotus spreadsheet. No, that’s not a joke. That is a thing they are actually doing. Scout’s honor. In retrospect, though, it is pretty sloppy and speculative — bisexuality isn’t exactly open data when I write this and is much less so back when I live it.

It’s around 10:15 when Mimi’s background check turns up some interesting results. We know about the name confusion by this point, and I mention that a DJ at Summers thought her name was Cherry. Well, it turns out the Sheriff’s office of Lauderdale regularly extorts passenger lists from the Federal Aviation Administration, to help them track crimes over Spring Break committed by the masses of visitors. They’re not supposed to do that, but what’s even worse is that they put said records on an insecure bullshit network in the Podunk Sheriff’s office. Which means Mimi easily gets access to them.

Now, all of that we knew from the beginning — but this morning, we use these records with photos and names to get Jeri Turner’s full legal name. It’s fairly easy — like I said, not too many black Spring Breakers. From the full name, it’s not hard to confirm — Jeri’s birth name was Cherry, but it was legally changed when she was sixteen. So why would she give an out-of-date birth name to a DJ at a wet t-shirt contest, when all her other social affairs had been under a different name for the last seven years? A bit of phone research using the Trips’ big Rolodex of gossip-maven contacts gives us all the answers we want.

We wait for Jeri to call. It’s a bit nerve-wracking. We’re both hoping. The phone rings at 11:47. I pick it up and listen. “That’s great news, Jeri. Mimi — that’s our stage-girl — will pick you up in an hour.”

My voice is level and suave. Jeri can’t hear Livia and I pumping our fists in the air and grinning at each other like maniacs, because that doesn’t make any noise.

I do manage to corner Mimi before the show, briefly, in a private moment. I know she’ll shut me down, so I just spit out everything I want to say to her. “Mimi. Just listen to me for one second, okay? Please. I’m... I’m sorry. I have a pretty good idea what I did wrong. I know it hurt you. I didn’t think of that at the time. I was just trying to make her happy. I really didn’t want to hurt you.”

Mimi — or Miriam — looks back up at me. There’s no trace of her bimbo persona. “Thanks. I... I’m not good with, you know, lots of strange men putting their hands on her body. I... can’t be. It’s visceral. I love her. Yes, that way. I know you and her don’t do that. Livia and I already talked. I’ll cope. I want you to know... it’s not you. I mean, I don’t mind when you touch her. I know you. You’re... nice. I trust you. You respect her. They... don’t. And, uh... other women don’t bother me. Share as many as you two want. I know that’s hypocritical. It’s just... I can’t control how I feel. It’s involuntary.”

I nod. I have a feeling this isn’t over, but it’s at least in remission, and that’s good. “Livia and I are going to try to make one of your fantasies come true today. From my side, take it as apology and friendship, not anything prurient. I like you. I mean, I’m not hitting on you — that bit is super-clear to me — but I like it when you’re happy. It makes everyone around you happy too.”

Mimi hugs me. “Oh, Marcie. You’re a mega-sweetie. Just... take care of her, okay?”

Yeah, that’s the old Mimi — welcome back! “Ten-four.”

I feel warm and optimistic inside, with her arms around me. (No, not that way. And not that way either.)