The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Livia does not share my hesitation. “Okay, calm down,” she says. “So I think we can condense this down into just saying you’re not into girls, right?”

“Absolutely not!” Jeri agrees. Then she realizes the exact phrasing. “I mean... I agree. I’m not into hot girls at all. Ever. Not under any circumstances. Not even Kelly LeBrock!”

Oh, Cherry. Please keep working those Freudian slips. I’m crushing on you so hard right now. Even amidst my moment of existential moral panic, that thought makes it’s way to the forefront of my brain. I think it calms me a bit.

The audience laughs. The crowd is getting to Noodle levels of worked up, but it’s quieter, more visceral and emotional, this time.

“Gotcha,” Livia says. “But one thing confuses me about that.”

“I’m really not,” Jeri insists pleadingly.

“I believe you,” Livia brazenly lies. “But... that might be a bit awkward tomorrow, don’t you think?”

“What do you mean?”

“You signed up for another wet t-shirt contest here at Summers.”

“I... uh... Marcelo told me that joining this show would help me boost my confidence. But I think I’m going to skip out. It’s actually boosted my confidence enough that I realize I don’t need to degrade myself like that.”

There is no conviction in that last line at all. Mind you, it always rings hollow to me, when a woman has a chance to do something sexy, and says she has too much self-esteem or self-respect to do it. Not that a lady can’t just not be interested or not enjoy it — unlike Livia, I don’t really believe that every woman is an exhibitionist at heart — but the implicit assumption and accusation that the exhibitionists must have low self-esteem rather then just different tastes, and the desperation of it, always rings false. I think I’m coming around more to Livia’s outlook on what makes a woman respectable.

“Listen to me,” Livia coos. “You already signed up for one contest at Summers. Everyone saw you. You chose that. You need to own it if you want people to respect you. You need to be at Summers tomorrow.”

“No,” she says. “I don’t. It was just peer pressure anyway, that got me in the first one. That’s not the girl I am.”

“Hmm,” Livia says. “Who pressured you to sign up?”

“Um. People. Some people did. Somewhere.”

Best unconvincing answer ever. Livia stares.

“Cherry,” Jeri finally blurts out.

“Who?” Livia asks.

“Um... a girl I know. A bad influence. She pressured me.”

“Well,” Livia argues, “you’re pretty much stuck now. If she pressured you once, she can pressure you again. Honestly, Jeri, you know you’re going to be at that contest tomorrow, so you might as well get yourself in the headspace and prepare for it as best you can. And honestly, Jeri, you want to win.”

“You’re right,” Jeri admits, and blushes. And the crowd absolutely whoops. I don’t think Cherry lets Jeri hear it, however.

“Well, then you have a bit of a dilemma, don’t you?”

Jeri frowns. “What do you mean?”

“You... don’t know? I guess you weren’t at the first contest long enough. Jeri, girls make out with other girls at these contests. It’s pretty much de rigueur. If you’re in the contest, you’re probably going to end up kissing other girls... and honestly, it doesn’t always stop there...”

“Oh, no!” Jeri gasps in stark innocent horror. Oh, Jeri, you’re kind of hot yourself at times, mindless amalgamation of cultural cliches or not.

“I might have a trick I could teach you to help avoid... people saying things about your sexuality, though.”

“What?”

“Tell me... have you heard of porn star kissing?”

Jeri’s face twists into a grossed-out grimace.

“It’s not what it sounds like,” Livia assures her. “Porn girls are often straight, but they get paid to do lesbian scenes. But they don’t actually want to kiss other girls, so they do this weird little thing instead — and people know they aren’t gay. I can show it to you, if you want.”

“Umm...” Jeri’s really indecisive. “Okay, I guess.”

I interrupt at this point — I see a perfect opportunity. “Mimi, would you be a dear and grab me another glass of wine?”

Mimi looks confused and annoyed at me interrupting something she’s clearly looking forward to watching — but I meet her gaze meaningfully, and I make a little “bending over” motion with my hands. She finally gets it. “Sure thing, M!”

Mimi pours a glass of wine, gets up from the control station and walks over to us. She stands directly between Livia and Jeri, and leans over deeply, getting her jugs right in Jeri’s face as she hands me the glass again. What happens next is comedy perfection.

“So,” Jeri asks, “if I learn this porn kiss thing, you’re sure that people won’t think I’m into girls?”

As the words come out of Jeri’s mouth and Mimi’s cleavage again dominates her field of view, Cherry decides to seize the moment — and apparently control of Jeri’s left hand. Said hand snakes around behind Mimi, reaches lewdly between her legs and gives her pussy a quite firm, four-second, not-remotely-accidental squeeze. Mimi gives out a small, high-pitched “eep”... and then just lets Jeri continue, enjoying the moment. I wink at her and catch the glass, putting my hand under it to catch any spills. I quite like Jeri’s current costume, and don’t want her to change it... yet.

The audience bursts into uproarious laughter at Jeri’s expense, but I doubt Cherry lets her hear it. “Must have been a muscle spasm,” Jeri explains unconvincingly. “You know, from the dancing.”

“Sure,” Mimi says, and winks playfully at Jeri.

“If you learn to do porn star kissing,” Livia tells her, “I can all but guarantee you that tomorrow’s contest won’t cause any new rumors about your sexuality.”

How... cleverly phrased.

“Let’s get started, then,” Livia says curtly. “Sit on my lap, facing me,” she commands. “You know, straddle me.”

Jeri doesn’t move.

“You want to learn this or not?” Livia asks.

“I’ll hold your hand,” I assure Jeri. “That way, it won’t feel gay.”

So, Jeri goes over and straddles Livia, with Livia facing toward the audience and Jeri facing the shadowed backstage area. Nice tail! Nice athletic black ass in sheer tights, too. And the position, and the tuxedo and bunny costumes, and the eye contact with Jeri looking down at Livia... yes. Very nice. Mimi thinks so too, enough to take out a camera and snap a few high-quality publicity photos of the pose and the moment. Now Livia wraps her arms around Jeri’s waist, and from her perspective it must seem very romantic — if a bit possessive.

But in reality it’s more trademark Livia humor — literally behind Jeri’s back, instead of clasping her hands together she gives the whole audience an enthusiastic, two-handed thumbs-up gesture. Without speaking, she says “Yeah, dudes! For real, I’m gonna do it! I’m about to get some hot tongue action from the gullible, hypnotized babe! This is so awesome!”

Livia is a thirty-four year old woman with the heart of a wildly horny fourteen-year-old boy. I knew she read my books and learned from them, but this is when it crystallizes in my mind just how much she’s internalized the Adolescent Eye. It’s why she’s the one human being on the whole planet I relate to the best. She can be so utterly juvenile about sex, in an infectious way.

The crowd adores her for it, in a tension-breaking, almost cathartic manner, and we get countless thumbs-ups back — with Jeri oblivious to all of this by double-virtue of hypno-censorship and just facing the wrong damn direction. It’s like the dichotomy between the Cinemax erotic thriller and the zany teen sex comedy. Livia’s campy humor makes sex — even predatory sex — harmless and fun again.

In the moment, all I think is that Livia’s letting her dorkier side shine through to comedic effect. Given more time to contemplate later, however, I will realize this gag may have been more thoughtful than I initially give it credit for. After all, the crowd is more than half girls — and she, in one quick gesture, says to all of them, “yes, ladies, you have my formal approval to look at sex with the same gleeful, carefree immaturity as a fourteen year old boy. We in the vagina crew are, in fact, psychologically capable of that. It’s officially allowed as of today.”

Pretty slick, in the context of everything else she says today.

Anyway, she continues guiding Jeri. “Okay, so you’re going to stick out your tongue, and I’m going to stick out my tongue, and we’ll just meet in the center, okay? If you do it right, they don’t even have to touch — it just looks like it.”

Jeri does not get it right. They both stick out their tongues, and move their heads together. Jeri just keeps going, though, or Cherry takes control. Lips meet, and the two women kiss for real, their lips parting with a wet squelch and a big-hearted cheer from the crowd — led firmly (and ironically) by what has to be mostly straight girls.

“Okay,” Livia says breathlessly, “that was exactly what we were trying to avoid. I mean, I’m not going to pretend I didn’t enjoy it — I sure did, possum, intensely — but I’m sure you must feel scandalized and humiliated, and I’m sorry. I’m very sincerely sorry that happened. I couldn’t possibly have predicted it.”

Jeri flinches, but doesn’t say anything — so Livia continues. “Let’s try this one more time. Here’s how it works. You put out your tongue. I put out my tongue. They lightly touch. Your warm, full lips do not need to touch mine. You do not need to taste the flavor of my lipstick. Your body should not writhe and pulse in my arms. You must not forcibly penetrate my moist, inviting mouth with your wild, aggressive tongue. There’s no need to grind your pussy against my thigh vigorously as we kiss. And it only needs to last a second or two — you don’t need to latch on and just go at it until you can’t take any more pleasure. Do you understand? Are you going to be able to show enough restraint and decency to do this in a properly ladylike manner?”

“I’ll... try,” Jeri says uncertainly, then catches herself. “I mean, of course I will! Do you think I’m enjoying this or something?”

The women lean close again. Neither remembers even the pretense of sticking out her tongue. Cherry rises up and compels Jeri to ignore every piece of advise Livia gave her. The body-grinding sapphic makeout lasts a good two minutes. I’d describe it, but Livia already did that, in wonderfully vivid reverse-o-vision. I can only add one saucy detail to the whole matter. If you doubt the passion of these women, and you bought the tapes, use slow motion right when Jeri gets up off Livia’s leg. You can see the wet spot on Livia’s right pant-leg gleaming in the stage light. Fun stuff.

“Well,” Livia says. “That was very... lively. Jeri, love, I have some bad news for you.”

“What?” she moans sadly, her lower lip trembling.

“I’m pretty sure you’re an industrial-strength, pure-strain, utterly-beyond-redemption dyke. But there is a silver lining you should take away from this as well: you’re a really goddamn foxy dyke, and you kiss like a sex machine.”

“No, no,” Jeri gasps in horror as her disobedient hands grope, feel up and squeeze Livia’s ample chest rather roughly through her dress shirt. “That just isn’t true!”

Jeri is beginning to fall apart at this point — not to have a nervous breakdown or cathartic moment or any other real emotion, but to cease to be a coherently motivated intellectual construct with a sensible inner narrative. Our show is turning the prude-voice’s arguments into a caricature and a farce. Satire weakens the pompous, and farce even more so. The dynamic of power between Jeri and Cherry has shifted, I feel sure — possibly even permanently. Jeri isn’t going to be able to go back to being the demon on Cherry’s shoulder after we made her into a lewd punchline.

Now, this isn’t tightly scripted. We have a list of “snares” to use on Jeri, and we want to drop them in order of increasing heat. But there’s something about girls kissing for me, especially when it’s as passionate as Livia and Cherry were, and I’m horny and really want a piece of the action. “You know,” I say, “I can think of a way you could still prove you’re not a lesbian.”

“Really?” Jeri gasps, clutching at a faint ray of hope. “How?”

“Well, you could give me a private dance,” I say. “But it would have to be pretty steamy to top what you just did with Livia.”

That gets a fair bit of very angry booing from a segment of the female crowd — though people of both genders do also cheer. Honestly, I’m not trying to screw with or subvert the gay pride narrative here or anything. Remember, we know Cherry’s bi — she told us before the show. I just... really want to get my hands on Cherry right now.

“Yes!” Jeri says. “That’s a great idea! I’ll prove it for sure!”

Now this seems stupid — even by the low standard Livia told Jeri to set. But I actually find it oddly credible. The puritanical psychology is almost pathologically blind to bisexuality as a concept. It’s a very binary worldview — people are gay or straight; anything in between is prevarication. So it makes sense that the ‘Jeri’ caricature would believe that. Back in reality, well, polls and surveys about gay demographics are controversial and diverge fairly wildly, especially in that bisexual people don’t always label themselves as such. But some studies suggest there are three or four bisexual women for every full lesbian. The trend isn’t quite as strong with men — but the bi-dudes still outnumber the gay ones.

Anyway, Livia needs to rescue the pacing — we have plans to use before the third Decan gets to that point. She isn’t angry — if anyone can empathize with saying something in a moment of pure lust, it’s her — but she does take the reins. “Well, Jeri, we’ll give you that opportunity — but I think we should calm down a bit first. Honestly, Jeri, don’t you feel a bit peckish? When I was, ah, ‘instructing’ you, you seemed a bit... hungry.”

“Yeah,” she says. “I actually am. I guess the dancing worked up an appetite.”

“And the kissing?” I tease her.

“Trying to avoid thinking about that, thanks.”

Livia opens a cabinet drawer until the table and takes out a white plate filled with a stack of about forty maraschino cherries, most complete with stems. “Would you like a cherry? They’re very sweet and fresh.”

“Ooh, they look good. Do you have a fork?”

“You can just pick them up by the stem.”

Jeri looks cautious. “This is going to look naughty, isn’t it? Suggestive? I mean, I’m putting a cherry in my mouth with my fingers...”

“Well, yeah,” I confirm, “but really, after the kissing bit it’s a fairly tame thing to do, don’t you think?”

So Jeri picks up one of the cherries by the stem, holds it above her mouth and cautiously places her lips around it. She squirms, ever so slightly, and her face takes on an odd, difficult to read expression. She forces her hand away from her mouth and sets the cherry back on the gleaming porcelain appetizer plate.

“I don’t think I should eat these cherries. I don’t think anyone should. I think they are... sinful.”

“What hubris is this,” I ask her, “to claim to know the will of the Almighty? Leviticus condemns shellfish, not cherries. The scripture is not as clear on these matters as bitter old men may have taught you. If you want to understand the truly sacred, go home tonight and re-read the Song of Songs.”

That doesn’t hit home. I misjudged. Cherry isn’t religious, she’s just remembering judgmental things people have said to her.

“I predict,” Livia says, “that you will eat one of these cherries.”

“You did something to me with hypnosis.”

“I did,” she says, “but not what you’re thinking. Neither Marcelo nor I are forcing you to eat a cherry. There’s other food if you want it. But... I think you will.”

“Why?”

“Because I can see the struggle. People that don’t get it, they might say you were a girl possessed, with a demon whispering in her ear that she can’t manage to resist. But I know that’s not true. You’re a demon with a girl whispering in your head, and she’s sick of suffocating, and you can’t resist her any more. She’s fed up, and just done with you, and she wants a cherry.”

Cherry reaches forward, picks up a cherry, wraps her lips around it, licks it, fondles it, tears the stem off, envelops it and closes her mouth. She begins moving it around with her tongue. Jeri looks utterly mortified and helpless to control her own body. Jeri’s cute when she’s utterly mortified and helpless to control her own body. The cherry-suckling goes on for a full minute. Eventually, I hold a finger in front of her nose to check. “You can swallow that cherry, spit it out or keep playing with it, but regardless you should probably start breathing again.”

Cherry swallows with an audible gulp, then opens her mouth and draws in a fierce gasp of air.

“That was really tasty,” our mark says, “but I think I should...”

And then she trails off.

Livia chuckles. She takes the amethyst from her neck and swings it before Jeri.

“Are you trying to hyp...”

A few seconds of silence. It’s almost a punchline, how Jeri just trails off in the middle of that specific sentence.

And then Livia’s body language changes instantly, and she becomes the most dominant I have ever seen her. And I don’t mean she becomes the sexy dominatrix I want to spank me and tell me I’m a bad boy. I know Livia has that one in her, and am looking forward to experiencing it. This one... if Livia pulls this one, I’m not thinking about spankings, I’m wondering if she has a Beretta and if there is a blunt object nearby I can use to dash her brains out in instinctual self-defense before she can return the favor.

“You have no control! You are not a person! You are not stronger than her! You have never been stronger than her, and you never will be stronger than her! Do you understand that? Tell me you understand! Hear and obey!”

“I understand,” Jeri says, eyes blank and dead.

“Submit to her! Say it! Say you submit to Cherry! She is a person! You are a tool she uses to survive the cruelty of our society! You emerge when she wills it, you fulfill her objectives and you go back into the darkness when she no longer needs you, and you know why? Because she’s real and you’re not! So tell her! Say it! Say you submit to Cherry, for now and forever, until the last of the stars in the sky have spent the whole of their nuclear fusion and guttered out!”

“I submit to Cherry, for now and forever, until the stars in the sky have... burned out.”

Livia’s dominant power pops like a balloon, and she’s suddenly girlish, sweet and even a bit bimbo-like. “Nifty! Well, with that worked out I think we can all be besties again. Jeri, why don’t you get back in the driver’s seat. We have just a wee bit more sexy and hilarious degradation for you, but don’t worry. After this you can have a nice long nap and relax in the quiet darkness. Sound peachy?”

Holy fuck. I will talk to Livia about retiring tonal whiplash as a hypnosis technique after this. I’m not even going to argue about how it plays to the mark or how it plays to the audience — how it plays to me is “likely to cause a heart attack”.

Jeri blinks, coming back to awareness. “Uh... peachy. Thanks.”

And then she remembers, and blushes. Cherry’s hand reaches out, fumbling, and she pulls the microphone out of my hand and walks to the center stage. She’s slow and almost robotic — not tranced, but like each step she’s taking is a struggle through deep mud, and she has to will each leg to move. When she gets to the center, she speaks into the microphone. She has this panicked, desperate facial expression, like “what the fuck am I getting myself into and why can’t I stop.”

“You know,” Cherry forces Jeri to say through gritted teeth, “I’ve got a whole bowl of cherries here, and they taste really good. I’m wondering if anyone out there would like to taste my cherry... I mean, taste one of my cherries.”

The audience howls. We’re getting “Cathy’s tits at the Noodle” levels of enthusiasm here.

Livia speaks into her microphone. “Okay, folks, everybody stay seated right where you are. Anybody getting up in the next fifteen minutes gets booted out. Apparently our brave young volunteer is a pretty respectable girl after all, and she has some sweet treats she’d like to share. Maybe raise your hand if you’d like a taste. Marcelo, please escort her around, and make sure everyone stays polite and the people eating the cherries are the people she gives them to.”

So this goes down exactly like you might expect it to. The audience wasn’t privy to the cherry association being given — but most of them watched the second Decan and have little trouble figuring out what the game is about. So I escort our bunny-waitress around the crowd. She dangles cherries in people’s faces and they eat them. And she squirms and writhes visibly, and the crotch of her lovely green bustier gets a fair bit darker than the rest of the fabric. She starts with girls, mostly, probably thinking they’ll be gentler, but... the whole crowd is pretty worked up. I escort her, and catch her to prevent her from falling on her ass when she’s overcome with stimulation. It’s pretty intense. I’m also sure that a number of straight girls, caught up in the whole sexual liberation and freedom from societal confines narrative, get very sensual with a cherry in a way that Livia enjoys immensely.

Throughout this, the face belongs to Jeri. It’s brilliantly flushed, visible in spite of her teak skin, and she looks appropriately horrified and humiliated. She’s pathetically trying to keep up a masquerade that nothing sexual is happening here. When someone gets overly sensual with a cherry, she’ll stare at them in sharp contempt and say, “It’s just a cherry, you sicko. Get over it.”

And the perpetrator will smile and wink at her and just say “Sure,” and everyone laughs. Except Jeri.

Lots of people grab, stroke and squeeze Jeri’s breasts. I permit this, as long as they aren’t forceful and she’s just acting ashamed rather than backing away. And Cherry instigates a lot of reaching over tables and stretching to hold out cherries, and her beautiful C-cups don’t always stay fully in that contoured bunny-girl teddy. Cherry does it, and as soon as Jeri notices, she grabs her chest in a protective pose and pulls the costume back up. I don’t think she can blush any harder than the permanent tone she’s stuck at for the duration, though.

Her nipples play a constant game of peek-a-boo that amuses the patrons — the men more than the women, though the latter still get a giggle. There’s one exception to that, though. Jeri reaches out over a table to feed a cherry to a rather muscular and roughly handsome shirtless guy. Her chest comes fully out, but she’s still dangling the cherry, teasing the beefcake. Well, a brave if somewhat nerdy-looking young lady decides to seize the opportunity, tilting her head around under Jeri’s torso, fixing her mouth around Jeri’s left nipple and just sucking and tonguing it. And Cherry just holds her there in that position for over ten seconds, letting the girl get her licks in. Pun intended.

As I escort Jeri though the audience, Livia and Mimi rearrange the stage. The table gets moved to the corner. The props I sent Mimi on a grocery run for at the beginning are taken out of the brown bag and set on the table. Mimi got six full cherry pies from A&P grocery — heavy things with a thick crust on the bottom and a full inch of whipped cream up top. They take them out of the metal tins — something Mimi has experience with. If you’re going to be tossing around pies for either comedy or fetish, get rid of the tins first — they can slice flesh when thrown or shoved wrong. One pie gets cut into six slices and put on small paper plates. The other five get put on large paper plates. They also set out a special pitcher of water on the table. It looks the same as the plastic jugs used in wet t-shirt contests — but it’s not.

Next they move this large, inflatable lounge chair to the front of the stage. It’s made of transparent, rubbery plastic. It provides a neat visual, and I know that balloons are a fetish to some people — inflatable furniture probably would be as well, if it were more common. And it will give a suitably distinctive visual look to the climax of our act. It helps that we also put lighting tracks on the bottom, so we can dim the lights to make the stage more shadowy and the inflatable chair stands out as if it’s in a spotlight, showing perfectly everything that happens in it. The chair is directly over a metal bridge four yards tall — the same one we used for cameras and nozzles with the Daughters of the New Century. It still has the digital timer from the banana-eating contest, and an odd rope dangles from it beside the chair like the pull-cord of a lamp.

Finally, they roll out a door, in a frame, on a wheeled platform but without any associated wall — just a door in the middle of the stage. Three larger objects on similar rolling platforms are set up just beyond it. The whole setup process is done rapidly and only takes fifteen minutes. The girls could have it done in five, but they’re tempted to keep watching what’s happening with Jeri and I — a constant temptation in our line of work that I’ve also faced many times, and sometimes even managed to overcome.

I escort Jeri back to the stage and seat her at the table. She looks resigned and beaten down. I would begin to feel genuinely sorry for the persona, if I couldn’t see faint traces of a very happy, very horny Cherry peering out of the cracks in the — at this point pretty farcical — façade. And her Aura is off the charts, obviously.

“Honestly, Jeri, you look famished! Come have some food and wine!”

She skirts over to the table. She unironically does look really hungry — excitement, including humiliation, will bring that out in a person. Livia hands her a paper plate with a slice of pie, as well as a glass of wine. She puts the glass to her mouth and downs it relentlessly, desperate for something to calm herself and soothe her nerves. The crowd chuckles, both in anticipation and sympathy. “I’ve been there,” I hear Lisette Crauer whisper to a lady beside her.

Next the pie. Jeri is being paranoid, but also starved. She holds the paper plate right up to her mouth and shovels it into her mouth with the black plastic fork. She flashes Livia a “really? cherry pie?” look when she realizes what she’s eating. She does actually finish the slice, so Livia just hands her another one. That’s when Cherry makes her move, shaking and jiggling the pie plate. A clump of whipped cream and sticky cherry filling lands on the green Debonair bustier, running down and leaving a streak. The audience roars with approval (except, perhaps, a few guys that don’t want to see this iconic costume go away).

“Jeri,” Livia scolds, “you’ve spilled pie on your lovely costume! You should go change quickly! That costume is a genuine antique!”

It’s actually our counterfeit, but it’s still a fairly close copy.

“I did not!” she says, petulantly defying reality and visual evidence.

I stand up and walk behind Jeri. I glance at Livia, then at Jeri’s cleavage. Livia nods, as we silently form a plan. We want Cherry to make her choice clearly, here — but there’s also a specific visual homage I want here, that I’m going to guide a bit. Livia reaches under the table to grab a maraschino cherry from an open bottle fixed to the table leg. “Oh, look,” she tells Jeri sweetly. “I guess there was one more cherry after all!”

Livia presses the cherry to her lips, and proceeds to be obscenely suggestive with her tongue before swallowing it with an audible gulp. Jeri moans and tenses, a shiver of oral pleasure passing through her entire body. She involuntarily stretches her legs out and leans way back in the chair. Her hands clasp into fists, and she gasps. I only have to guide the paper plate ever so slightly. I’m pretty smooth, honestly, what with all the stage magic training. If you’re not looking for it, you can’t see how I set it all up — even on the remastered N-VHS release.

A full slice of cherry pie, heaping with whipped cream, slides off the paper plate and lands with a loud plopping sound directly in Jeri’s ample cleavage, already emphasized by the costume, as she squirms under Livia’s oral tease. We have another perfect visual image, one of Livia’s “searing cinematic moments”, and Mimi is ready with the camera.

If you haven’t seen it, just try to visualize it: a bunny waitress, in full glamour, face and body alike stretched in unexpected and humiliating ecstasy, with a messy and symbolic slice of cherry pie dropped directly into her cleavage, the smeared red of cherry filling contrasting the vivid green of the bustier, the clear white of the whipped cream and the dark, fine tone of her skin like Burmese teak. She’s gasping in both shock and pleasure, and her perfect glamour-girl lipstick is smeared from the earlier kissing.

We never get as much publicity use out of this photo as some others — given some things that come later, both Warrant and Debonair will threaten to sue us — but it’s still totally worth it.

This all only takes a few seconds. Jeri clutches her hands to her bust, crushing the pie and turning a big sticky mess into an even bigger, stickier mess. A lot of it slides directly down her neckline with an audible “glomph” sound, and I see a dark streak form on the costume from neckline to crotch as it flows downward inside. Well, Jeri, look at the bright side — at least it covers up how wet your crotch was getting.

Up until this point, I’ve been considering WAM to be Mimi’s fetish, and Livia’s to a lesser extent. You could attribute my adoption of it to some things coming a bit later in this routine, but I think it really starts for me right here and now, with this moment and this girl and this costume. I loved Cathy in chocolate, but naked ladies in chocolate is a fairly mainstream fashion-photo concept. This is pure fetish, and I find it electric. So I take the fetish and keep it.

“Um,” Jeri finally says awkwardly. “I may have spilt a bit of pie after all.”

Cue audience laughter.

“You know,” Livia says, “you’ve been squirming like toad on a hot plate for a while now. Do you perhaps need to use the ladies’ room?”

“Yes!” Jeri shouts, desperately happy to have a more wholesome rationale for her bouts of unsavory writhing. “I have to go pee-pee!”

I have never before, nor will again, hear a woman shout that specific sentence with such a sense of victorious pride and triumphal fervor — such a sense of exoneration. That’s comedy gold right there.

Livia puts headphones on Jeri. “Honestly, Jeri, we’ve got a nice, private bathroom right over there, with a built-in shower and four nice, opaque walls around it. There’s also a smaller bathroom down the hall, backstage, if you’d prefer that one.”

Mimi runs over and pulls the black tarps off the stuff behind the fake door. We have a bathroom sink with attached mirror and drawers, a toilet and the rolling shower that we used at the Noodle and after the ketchup stunt. We made a little bathroom set — the only problem is it’s right on stage and (contrary to what Jeri currently believes) has no walls. This doesn’t seem to be a serious issue, though, at least judging from the riotous applause that wells up from the crowd. This one is more male-driven, though the women definitely represent.

Our volunteer looks back and forth between the two bathrooms. It’s no dilemma at all for Jeri, but I imagine Cherry is either toying with her or actually making a choice. It’s notable that, despite how sexy and fetishistic the show has been up until this point the audience hasn’t seen all that much of Jeri’s exposed body — just some nip-slips when she was giving out the cherries. It doesn’t take too long, though, for Jeri to start walking toward the fake door.

“Jeri, dear?” Livia asks as she turns away.

“Yes?”

“Here’s some clean clothes, although they might be a bit racy. It’s just... you’ve messed up so many times, it’s all we have left. And do whatever you need to do to get some composure, so that when you come out of there you can stand up straight and eat like a big girl, okay?”

Jeri snatches the last Bloomingdale’s box from Livia, stalks off into the bathroom and slams the door after her.

We quickly gather up three chairs and set them up between the fake bathroom and the back wall, in the shadowed area of the stage. We take three of the pie slices on plates, sit in the chairs and proceed to watch the show with the rest of the audience. We’re visible but a bit shadowy, so as not to distract from the main attraction. Surely you’ve seen the gag in slapstick comedies with a voyeur audience watching something sexy secretly, and their voyeurism being emphasized in a slapstick way by them eating popcorn? This is exactly that, except that we’re eating slices of cherry pie instead of popcorn. We’re also wearing novelty red and blue 3D glasses and sitting in identical poise with our legs crossed, because comedy. The audience laughs at the sheer sleazy shamelessness of it.

Since we’re about to watch a peep show, Mimi runs over to the control panel and cues up some music on repeat to go with the cheap thrills. Do I really need to tell you what song she chooses? I’m pretty sure you can guess. “She’s my cherry pie, cool drink of water, such a sweet surprise, tastes so good, makes a grown man cry...”

I adore this bit, for the obvious reason — no acting is involved. We just get to shamelessly stare at our lovely volunteer the whole time. The gag is, we’re playing ourselves to the point of caricature. I do remind myself, though, that while Jeri is blissfully oblivious to our stunt, Cherry knows exactly what’s going on and can see us just fine. But then again, if my suspicions are correct, Cherry’s into that.

I have never actually watched a girl take off her clothes in private. I’m a huge voyeur, but I’m not into that level of violation. There’s Cathy, of course, who was putting on a show, and some other instances. A few times I’ve used a meaningful gaze to get hot girls in bars — total strangers, often — to flaunt it a bit, even in an R-rated way. I love that — but it’s not like this. Jeri is doing anything but put on a show.

She’s really tired of being used as a showpiece, and is taking her breathing room. She stares at herself in the mirror. She looks stressed, exhausted and beaten down. She almost reaches up and runs her hands through her hair in frustration before realizing they’ve covered with pie. She washes them. Her movements are angry. But she also starts tapping her foot in time to Warrant. Maybe Cherry is doing it. But maybe this girl, regardless of mask or persona, is just a dancer down to her very essence and can’t do anything but that when she hears the beat. I don’t know.

She takes a towel and cleans out her cleavage. Well, somewhat, at least. She walks into the shower stall and turns the handle. No water comes out. Think about this for a second. Think about the wicked witch bit. I wonder if that could be read as suicide — or just going along with the scenario. She stares up and the shower-head and swears. “Fuck! Fuck! I... this can be fixed. This can still be fixed. This can still be fixed. I have to solve this. Think about what Dad would think! Think about what his friends will think!”

We hear that, with our lurid “front row seats”. I don’t think the audience did, which is good, but her body language is still pretty communicative. She opens the black Bloomingdale’s box and pulls out the outfit — a lacy black French Maid fetish costume. “Fuck,” she says quietly and tosses it back in the box. She looks in the mirror. There’s a lot of anger there, and self-hatred — or hatred of Cherry, I guess. “At least I have the good sense to be ashamed of all this,” she says. “If I’m still ashamed, I have some decency left. I can survive on that. I know, in my heart, that I’m not one of those truly shameless girls. Besides... it’s not like, for all the stupid games, anyone actually saw too much.”

I’m pretty sure Cherry suggested the last sentence, and I love her for it. Jeri steps out of the high heels and leans down to massage her ankles. Regardless, we now get to the part all the boys in the audience have been waiting so patiently for. Jeri reaches around to the back of the green bustier and pulls the zipper all the way down. It’s not a tease or a strip act, since she’s oblivious to the hundreds of hungry eyes watching her. Cherry winks at me as it goes down, though. It’s oddly discordant with the rest of her body language.

Jeri slips out of the bustier. She’s facing the mirror, so we get to see her lovely natural tits and very hard nipples before the audience does — but only by a second or two, since they’re visible in the mirror even as Jeri has her back to the real crowd. She just stares at the red and white streak on her lovely dark skin, reaching from her bustline to her crotch. She picks up the bustier and hurls it with a fair bit of force into the shower. I wonder if she can somehow faintly hear the riotous laughter of the ladies in the crowd, maybe subconsciously, as an echo of her earlier humiliations.

She angrily tears off the ears, armlets and choker and tosses them in the shower stall. Right through it, actually, in the case of the armlets — the shower, you’ll recall, is just a metal frame and floor. The walls are just in Jeri’s mind. I worry briefly that the visual anomaly of the armlets passing through the “walls” will disrupt the trance, but it doesn’t even jostle it. Livia’s normal trances are way deeper than that, Jeri’s trance is way deeper than a normal one and Jeri’s mindset is not at all in line with noticing anomalous environmental details at the moment.

Jeri pulls down the black tights and steps out of them, stumbling and almost falling in doing so. They get hurled angrily into the shower with everything else. She grabs a towel and turns around, balancing her ass against the countertop and using the towel to wipe away the streak of pie goo down her front. It gets all sticky and starts catching, so she throws it aside. She wets down a small washcloth in the sink and starts scrubbing her torso with angry, almost spastic motions.

Now, Jeri is a drop-dead gorgeous young lady, slender and leggy, with the perfect tightness and subtle musculature of a dancer’s physique. Her short hairstyle has one massive advantage over the big-volume types like Livia’s endless ringlets or Mimi’s fluffy jungle — no matter what she goes through, it’s always going to stay looking avant-garde and stylish. She’s turned to face the real audience at this point, so she can lean against the sink-counter. She’s got pert, all-natural C-cups that move quite freely. I’m sure you can imagine the appealing consequences of a naked lady with this specific build hurling things about with all her strength and scrubbing at her midriff with undue violence.

Jeri gives the audience quite an amazing jiggle show, and really sets a new water-mark in “she’s sexy when she’s angry” territory. From our perspective in the rear, we get to see... the rear. Jeri has a spectacular ass, the “bubble butt” so many black ladies seem to covet — rounded and defined without being too large to look right on her slender figure. Her cheeks are firm and muscular, though, and don’t jiggle overmuch — a dancer’s ass, fit and toned.

Well, the pie goo slid all the way down and soaked through the tights, so the washcloth eventually goes all the way down, too, and scrubs. Vigorously. Jeri’s eyes close, and her mouth opens slightly. And then she realizes what she’s doing, and freezes. The washcloth slides out of her hand and lands on the floor with a wet plop. I think she’s having a panic attack. She starts breathing in and out, in and out, in a very obviously structured way. She turns around and faces herself in the mirror. “I am not... I am not... after everything those... those utter bastards did, it would be insane and abhorrent for a girl to be horny! I am not that kind of girl! I am not horny! I am not horny! I will stop acting like a whore! I will stop...”

And then, for a brief second, Cherry takes charge, puts of a bratty expression and says, “But I don’t wanna! It’s fun!”

And then Cherry sticks out her tongue at her own reflection before vanishing back into the ether. Jeri clutches her chest and stumbles back like a girl in a horror movie right after a jump scare. I guess from her internal perspective, it was like that bit in Candyman. The audience laughs, and cheers Cherry on.

“Jeri’s such a good girl,” I hear one of the ladies in the audience whisper.

“Yes,” her friend says, “she is a good girl.”

Jeri stares at herself in the mirror. “I am not... I don’t need... I do not need to...”

But I’m sure she’s thinking of that brilliantly-worded line Livia gave her before she went in the bathroom — or Cherry’s reminding her of it — and she’s weighing what’s going to lead to more or less humiliation in the long run. She’s looking around the room, mentally verifying that it’s all secure. She checks that the door is locked. All the hallucinatory walls are firmly in place. She walks over to the toilet and puts down the lid. She leans down. She sits on the toilet. There’s a sharp intake of breath from a sizable portion of the audience, and absolute silence. I know what they’re all thinking: is this really going to happen? Surely there’s some punchline to prevent us from seeing what we all so desperately want to see? I mean, they’re not actually going to let her...

Yes. Yes, we are. And we’re going to enjoy the hell out of it.

Directly facing the audience, Jeri spreads her legs wide and sears an beatific vision of her sweet cherry pie into the memories behind the thousands of hungry eyes watching her — and she’s utterly oblivious to the fact. Her bush is just a tuft above the vagina. It’s not super-neatly gardened, and there’s faint stubble around her pussy lips — she clearly wanted to have that Debonair style landing strip, but didn’t know enough about glamour-grooming to quite make it happen.

Seeing her pubes transfixes me — it’s obviously really hot on the basic voyeur level, but it also makes her intensely relatable to me. It sends me back to my high school years when I knew I wanted to style, to be a player — but I didn’t have all the mechanics of manscaping down pat yet. In a weird way, I feel like Cherry is me, at least as I was back then. It’s a bush that speaks to me, and what it has to say is, “I might still be just a wee bit innocent, but I’m very eager to rectify that. Would you be willing to help me with that?”

She’s also moist, and not just from the washcloth. Her clit is hard and protrudes. Her pussy lips are very well-defined, very curvy and puffy. Yum! Her hand massages her treasures, none too gently. She’s actually coming off like a real nymphomaniac — the DSM-III kind, not the sexy kind; a woman who cannot orgasm and suffers increasing frustration and anger from her attempts. The guys are loving this, and buying it — but the girls are wincing, or chuckling with schadenfreude.

“Oh my god,” a plump Polynesian girl in the crowd says. “Someone needs to teach that girl how to do the downstairs DJ properly.”

“She’s a good girl,” her gal-pal explains sagely. “They don’t get taught about that.”

We could let this go on. It would make for a really hot show. The guys would love it, and the girls would at least be entertained. But Jeri and Cherry share a lovely pussy, and I don’t want it to get scratched or bruised — or bleed. I turn to glance at Livia — but she’s already responding. I was wrong to doubt her empathy. First, however, she’s going to get in a brief bit of patter.

“Ladies,” she tells the audience, “I hope none of you masturbate like that at home! A respectable lady respects her body, and figures out how to have some real fun with it! And, if any of you are ever fortunate enough to find yourself in a situation where it’s socially acceptable to get off in front of a crowd this big, I hope you can muster a bit more enthusiasm for the act than Jeri can seem to manage!”

The crowd laughs uproariously as Jeri gets increasingly angry at her own genitalia. Livia un-mutes Jeri on her mike and knocks loudly on the bathroom door. “Jeri! You’ve got one minute left, and then I’m coming in there to get you — decent or not!”

Jeri looks up like a startled deer. She scrambles off the toilet and into the French Maid costume with shocking speed. She doesn’t forget the underwear, which is good — it will be important to our act. She also doesn’t have time to really examine what she’s putting on, which also has potential. She turns to the mirror and sees what can be done before stepping out. She’s sweating, but she has no time to do anything about that. She squirms a bit and straightens the costume. “Ten seconds, possum!”

Jeri steps out and fixes Livia with a glare of hatred, loathing and utter contempt. Livia smiles back sweetly and escorts her to the table. Neither woman sits, however — the chairs are gone. “Are you feeling refreshed?”

“Yeah,” she lies unconvincingly. “I’m a lot more composed now.”

“Wonderful! Then you should be able to stand up straight and eat properly like a grown woman.”

“Er, sure.”

“You sure? Really sure?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

A smile tugs at Livia’s mouth. “Wanna bet?”

“Uh... what?”

“A little wager. We cut this wonderful pie up already. We’ve got one slice left. All I want is for you to eat it in an appropriately ladylike manner. Think of it as a chance to show etiquette and class, and redeem yourself a bit after the thing with the cherries.”

Jeri glares. “What’s the catch?”

“Well, it is a wager, and we’re all out of cute costumes for you to wear. If you spill any food, Marcelo and I will help you get cleaned up... using our tongues.”

This gets a massive, gleeful roar from the audience — male and female. Nine and a Half Weeks was in theatres not that long ago, and the idea of licking food off one’s lover had firmly penetrated the female erotic consciousness. Not fetish-grade WAM, perhaps, but definitely some sexy oral food play. We have to wait for the roar to die down to get an answer from Jeri.

“Why would I ever take a dumbass bet like that?”

“Well, you don’t have to,” I told her. “You can just admit that when you eat, it often ends up looking, well... indecent.”

“Bullshit,” Jeri says. “That’s not remotely true, and I’ll prove it easy. You’re on!”

I just love girls hypnotized to be gullible. It’s not that girls can’t be talked into the same things in other ways, but it adds that extra little frisson of erotic humiliation to the mix, while keeping things absurd and silly in a way that avoids them being uncomfortable. This is the first such case, but you’ll be hearing more about this love of mine in the future. It may not even be that sexist — I was pretty gullible during the Taurus Escalation, and that was pretty hot too. It just wasn’t a comedy routine from my perspective.

I should describe what Jeri’s wearing a bit. It’s a French Maid costume, but it’s really skimpy. You’ve probably seen racy photos of women only wearing a cooking apron, right? This is like that, except it’s all made of white lace with black highlights. The top has no sides or back, instead being tied around the neck, and it’s pretty sheer and see-through — there’s going to be lots of sideboob here, and she’s going to have trouble staying in it. There’s a skirt, but it’s a naughty prank on our part — it’s decent in front, shaped like a little black satin bib with white lace trim — but it goes way, way higher in the back, barely covering half her ass. There are panties, but they’re white, with a loose band, and very, very filmy and insubstantial.

Now, Jeri’s a black lady, and she has a lustrous dark skin tone that’s positively radiant. It’s not remotely the same as black satin, though — no human skin tone is. It’s teak — a very deep, ruddy brown. But when you put sheer white lace with black satin highlights on that body, and it’s already just a very little bit sweaty the colors and the contrast absolutely pop. The white lace all but begs the eye to simultaneously worship and ravish every dark fleshy curve.

And, of course, there’s also the cute little lacy white headpiece, that anyone who’s seen a sexy French Maid costume will recognize immediately. But Jeri, being rushed, didn’t put that on — or the delightful black lace choker either. So Mimi goes and collects these items from the “bathroom”, and hands them to Livia, who then wordlessly affixes them to Jeri’s neck and head in a manner that is very sensual, very erotic and very, very condescending. She even finishes by giving her a cute little head-pat.

“Thank you,” Jeri says acidly.

Jeri leans over the table, we presume, to pick up the final slice of pie. Now, Mimi is in bimbo mode for the show, and both Livia and I are utter horndogs. We are into Cherry in a big way, mentally slavering over the idea of licking food off that delicious exposed skin. Jeri leans over, and as I’ve described with the costume above she’s flaunting that tight dancer’s ass in a way I doubt she’s fully aware of. So we’re quite occupied staring and fantasizing, and nobody sees that our volunteer picked up a full pie by the crust instead of the slice. She seizes Livia’s dress shirt firmly in her other hand, clenching it to hold her in place, and slams the full pie directly into her face — hard. Cream splatters across her hair, hanging in tiny icicles in her voluminous ringlets. Cherry filling cascades over the pristine white dress shirt like a crimson waterfall.

“Wasn’t there some kind of rule,” said volunteer asks, “about taking your clothes off and wearing a fucking retarded, humiliating costume if something gets spilled on them?”

This is not scripted. It’s totally unexpected. It blindsides both me and Livia. It’s not bad, per se — we just need to adapt. Given a moment to think, it’s actually pretty hot. Livia is hard to blindside — I know, I put a lot of thought and planning into doing so — and for her to get surprised and humiliated in a genuinely unexpected but harmless way is never not going to be hot.

The first question on my mind is if this was Jeri or Cherry — I have no idea, but I’ll assume it was a suggestion from Cherry that fit Jeri’s emotional state in the moment perfectly, which she had no motive to resist. We’re not worried about the tux — it’s a rental — and Mimi’s costume is latex specifically so she can get messy without ruining it, and we can just wash it later. And my tan Arabian getup is even more trivial.

I glance at Mimi. She’s totally zoned out, carried up to Cloud Nine. That makes sense — she’s actually in love with Livia, and is the most deeply into this WAM thing (which definitely includes pies in the face). Specifically facial mess is supposed to be a huge thing for devotees of the fetish — whereas for me, I’m more into getting more conventionally erogenous parts of the body messy. Livia? I can’t see her expression — her face is covered by a perfectly circular pie crust with the clear imprint of a splayed hand on it — but I’m sure she’s not angry. She of all people will appreciate the comedic timing at work here. I also doubt she’s really stunned — just playing it for dramatic purposes.

The audience is less enthused, however. Jeri’s the villain, after all — nobody wants to see her get her licks in, and they’re all on Livia’s side. “Come on,” I tell them. “You have to admit that was funny — and clever.”

So they laugh, nervously.

Livia scrapes the cream and cherry filling off her face. I hold my mike out to her. “Respectable girls can take a joke,” she laughs, and the audience laughs too, more sincerely. “Now I do believe,” Livia says, “that there was such a rule, so I guess I’m going to be losing some clothing myself here. I assure you, that absolutely mortifies me.”

Now that gets a laugh — and a cheer from the guys. One problem, though. This isn’t scripted. We don’t have a costume for her to wear. But I have a quick-thinking (and pervy) fix for that.

“You know,” I tell the audience, “we need something new for the lovely Lascivious Livia to wear. In fairness to our guest, I think it should be both something both deeply sexy and deeply stupid. So I’m going to be taking donations here. We’re looking for some gold hoop earrings, tight blue panties or bikini bottoms and a white top with sleeves... and a pair of scissors.”

Yup, we’re going there. I remember the Kelly LeBrock reference in Jeri’s Freudian slip, so we’re going to dress Livia like Lisa from Weird Science in her debut scene. The clothes are fairly generic, after all, and Livia’s already got both the hair and the sultry look. I collect the earrings from a giggly co-ed, the shirt from a bombastic dude, the scissors from the bartender and the blue panties (with white elastic, no less) from a cheerful young lady who is quite eager to show off her neatly trimmed cooch in the donation process (though she will later get some shorts from a friend to cover her modesty). I use the scissors to cut off the bottom portion of the shirt in what I hope will result in at least some decent underboob. I hand the improvised costume to Livia — who plays into the whole humiliation angle, albeit in a good spirit.

“So,” Livia says, “while I go get changed... Jeri, don’t you owe Marcelo a steamy private dance?”

I guide Jeri over to the inflatable chair, which I sit down in. “Show me your moves, babe — and remember, you’ve got something to prove.”

Livia walks toward the changing room — and then stops and flashes a mischievous look at the audience. “You know,” she says, “I think I’ll use the bathroom instead. It’s more convenient and spacier. It’s got a kind of roomy, open-air feeling going on.”

So, after whispering briefly to Mimi, Livia saunters toward the prop doorway — and I’m suddenly very interested in two dancers at the same time.

“Okay,” Jeri says, “I’m going to give you a personal dance. A very, uh... steamy one. I want you — I want all of you — to know I’ve never given a dance like this before, and I’m never going to do so again, under any circumstances! But I need to prove I’m not... you know. So you’d better enjoy this for all it’s worth!”

“Don’t worry,” I assure her, “you’ll know I’m not just flattering you, because you’ll be able to feel how much I’m enjoying it.”

“Not touching that.”

“Babe, you’re gonna have to. Part of you at least,” I say, giving her ass a playful smack.

She shoves me away with both hands, forcing me into the transparent blow-up lounger. The chair effectively absorbs me, forcing me to lean back. (We designed it to make it hard to eat or drink in without spilling, and the half-upright posture does that — before we decided to pun on Cherry’s name, the original script had us tricking the volunteer into spilling wine on consecutive costumes.)

“There’s one really important rule with this dance, though. You have to keep your hands where I put them, and not move them, okay?”

“Sure, Jeri. I promise.”

“No, Marcelo. Look me in the eye and swear an absolute, deadly serious oath that you will keep your hands exactly where I tell you.”

“I do so swear,” I say, “so help me god.”

I have a feeling I’m not going to need to get touchy — Cherry will do it all for me, and Jeri will have to cope with that. Lap dancing is not exceedingly well known at the time of this show. It’s done at some clubs, mostly in Montreal. I’ve been to a nice one there. It’s a kind of word-of-mouth thing, but Cherry clearly knows the words. I guess it hit Philadelphia, which might explain why Pops was so eager to shut down the strip clubs there.

Mimi cues up AC/DC’s You Shook Me All Night Long. Cherry starts to dance in front of me — and yeah, this is all Cherry, at least the dancing. She still has great moves, and her chest still has a mind of its own when deprived of a bra. She’s facing me, and leans over to stroke my chest with her hands. I can tell from the cheers of the crowd that they’re getting a great view of her ass in the overly-short-backed skirt and sheer panties. She pivots her shoulders, left-up, right-down, reverse, pump, pump, pump — in perfect time with the beat, and her body sways like a serpent.

She keeps eye contact, too. But that’s only the warmup. She spins her body around to face the audience, and gracefully falls into my lap. I feel her firm dancer’s ass press against my groin. The skimpy little genie briefs are sadly thicker than they look — we knew there would be more than one thing I’d see tonight likely to cause a boner — so while I’m not wearing a cup, it’s not really cotton boxers either. And then we really get to the rub of things. Pun intended.

She gets the mechanics of a lap dance, and isn’t shy about making use of them. She can’t have worked in a strip club. Maybe a boyfriend taught her — I can see her being one of the few girls that would be genuinely eager to learn, rather than grossed-out, even once she figured out the physics of what it’s doing to the guy. Or maybe she just heard gossip about it from her Mum’s old friends. Regardless, I can’t say she’s practiced at it, but she’s still damn good. Her shoulder blades look so erotic up close, and she moves her whole body when she grinds fluidly, like a serpent. The skin on her back seems to ripple. I’ve got a really strong erection. She can feel it. I’m not ashamed of that. I don’t think Cherry’s going to be disgusted with it — just the opposite, in fact — and if Jeri’s disgusted and horrified, well, that’s the punchline. She’s not real, anyway.

My hands dig into my own thighs. I feel Cherry’s hands cover my own and pry them away, guiding them off and up. “You need to keep your hands where I tell you,” she reminds me politely. As I’ve described, Cherry’s wearing a white lacy see-through front-top, tied around the neck. It has no sides or back. I’ve been watching some breathtaking sideboob as she grinds her firm ass on my dick. Then she slides both of my hands into her top, directly over her breasts. My hands cup the soft, perfectly formed breasts. I can feel the hard nipples in my palms. “Make sure you get a really firm grip,” Cherry tells me. I squeeze harder, pulling her to me and pressing her body against mine.

“I need you to cover my chest,” Jeri rationalizes horribly. “I think this top is kinda see-through.”

She’s not changing positions. She’s just grinding. Most guys would have come by now. I wonder if Cherry’s doing that on purpose or is genuinely not aware. Probably the latter, honestly — she’s really good at naughty innuendo, but this is probably her second or third actual lap dance.

“If you squeeze a bit harder,” she whispers to me, “you might just pop my Cherry... out.”

I think that’s a weird case of a double entendre where the less crude interpretation is far sexier. I’m a lot more interested in letting Cherry loose than allusions to virginity — but it’s still a hot line. And just after that, we get to that part. I didn’t see this at the time, but it’s pretty clear if you watch the videos how much struggle there is on Jeri’s face, how Cherry is making her say things and she’s trying to resist, and just totally can’t.

“Marc. You promised to keep your hands wherever I want them.”

“You haven’t told me to move them, baby.”

“I am now. I... think we need to do one little extra thing, to prove that I’m fully straight. Marcelo, I want you to do a little magic trick for the audience, and keep your promise.”

I’m not sure what she means. “Can you elaborate?”

Cherry grabs the microphone away from me. She looks out at the crowd, and winks, and a faint smile twists at the side of her mouth. “Make two fingers disappear.”

Her breathy words reverberate around the room. The crowd goes nuts at her brazen demand, whooping and screaming. Well, I did make a promise to the lady, a solemn oath. It would be pretty unchivalrous to renege, now, wouldn’t it?

An absurdly rational part of my mind checks the song. It’s at the guitar solo, so about a minute left. I wish I had more time, but the narrative won’t just let me ask for another song. She’s already pushed up against me and spread her legs about ninety degrees. So I slide my right hand down from her breast, still inside the lace top, over her taut midriff and between her legs, feeling the texture of that hairy tuft of pubic hair that so enticed me when she was in the bathroom. I flick the clit a bit, playfully, and get a nice reward — her ass grinding into my groin so hard and so aggressively that it almost hurts, crushing my testicles into the chair in time with a loud moan. I’d love to spend a good five minutes just doing that, but the lady made a very specific request, we’re at about fifty seconds and I don’t want to disappoint her.

First I slide my whole hand, flat, palm down, between her legs and squeeze her pussy a bit. It’s already slick with her moisture, and she gasps at the squeeze. I slide it back up a few inches, and it absurdly titillates me that her right breast has popped out of the lace top. Cherry places her hands against the arm-rests of the recliner and pushes herself up off my body, thrusting into the air. I take just a few selfish seconds to reposition myself a bit, so when she grinds more intensely it doesn’t crush anything but still gets the friction where I want it. If she can feel my erect cock, that’s great — that’s what a lap dance is for.

And, she told me to do a magic trick, didn’t she? Well, what good is a magic trick the audience can’t see? While my right hand teases her navel and pubic hair, my left slides down to her left thigh to the knot of black satin cord that holds the French Maid skirt in place. I tug the string as Cherry’s groin is suspended above, and the skirt comes loose. I toss it aside, leaving Cherry in the white lace backless top, garter belt, stockings, cap, choker and very, very sheer, filmy white panties.

Cherry brings her ass back down and grinds, keeping her legs spread about a foot at the knees. This time, as I slide my hand back down, I curl the middle two fingers inward. She’s tight, but she’s also wet, and they go in easy with just a bit of wiggling. It’s all warm, wet and tantalizing inside, just like it always is. Girls don’t really feel a lot different on the inside, but going into a new one with my fingers always feels awe-striking and unique for reasons that aren’t entirely rational. She gasps, really loudly and audibly. The audience cheers and gasps in preternatural sympathy with her sexual pleasure, and she grinds on my cock with all her strength, her sweaty hands squeaking as they try to find purchase on the plastic surface of the inflatable recliner.

I already know how the third Decan ends. Livia fires the hypnotic trigger and Cherry has an impressive twelve-minute orgasm. At no point do I get to put my dick in her, or have her suck it. That would undercut the point of the show. I’m tempted, honestly — Cherry would totally go with it, but Livia would be either furious or just deeply disappointed — and, I realize, it would ruin something I myself have come to care about greatly by this point.

Absently, I glance toward the door of the bathroom. It’s open, now, and Livia is standing there in the Weird Science getup and the classic photo pose. She’s biting her lip and just staring at us in wide-eyed, carnal delight. I wonder about shifting position slightly, letting go, just letting myself come right then, with this mouth-watering beauty grinding on my cock with all the repressed passion of a lifetime of sexual frustration and ambivalence. Twenty seconds, the devil on my shoulder teases me — not really enough time to enjoy it.

“Cover your chest, love,” I tell Jeri scoldingly as I finger-fuck Cherry. “You’ve popped out. You look indecent.”

Jeri pulls the top back in place and crushes her hands over her chest protectively. I playfully wiggle the fingers a bit as the final stimulation and Cherry goes wild at the last riff of the song. I can’t make her come, of course — Livia’s hypnosis won’t permit it. Actually, I wonder about that — if I did the really rough, fast climax-fingering some porn stars use, if the stimulation wouldn’t force an orgasm through nerves not connected to the brain, the same way a doctor’s hammer makes a patient’s leg jump. Or is Livia so powerful in her influence that no amount of stimulation would contravene her commands? I have no idea, but I’m not about to experiment right near the end of an otherwise very successful show — and I don’t do that to a girl’s vagina anyway, until I’m dead certain she’ll like it.

I pull my fingers out of Cherry and she collapses against me, the dance complete. “I want another song,” she says, almost in a daze.

“In a minute, possum,” Livia tells her. She’s beside the recliner now, holding a paper plate in her hands. I’m half-sitting, half-supine, with Cherry in my lap. When I look up at her, I look right up the underside of the loose-hanging, short-cut white shirt. Nice view! Livia’s firm underboob doesn’t jiggle much, but I can see the underside of her erect nipples against the white fabric. Cherry looks up, too, and doesn’t really stop staring. In the moment, I think it’s just a nice angle and a moment of private unity between me and Cherry. Watching the videos in retrospect, though, Cherry and I both get caught red-handed ogling Livia’s underboobs by the camera — quite lecherous, but also oddly cute in our pervy symmetry.

“You look refreshed,” Livia says primly, “and I think you’ve got real shot at the wet t-shirt tomorrow. Now, do you think you can eat a slice of pie the way a respectable young lady should?”

“Absolutely,” Cherry says. “No doubt in my mind whatsoever. Bring it on.”

Livia lowers the paper plate into her hands, carefully positioning it directly above her chest. Jeri takes it in her hands. She tosses aside the fork. She opens her mouth and moves the paper plate towards it, tilting the angle gradually so that it will soon slide off and splatter all over her full lips and lovely chest. And then... she suddenly stops, bringing the plate level and stable again. She squirms, adjusting her position, and taking the opportunity to grind my still-hard cock one more time.

Again she tilts the plate toward her face and chest, tilting more and more... and then stops sharply, making it level. Her face twists into a suspicious scowl. “Wait a minute! You’re trying to trick me! Cherry says you want me to spill this all over my... my chest, so you can do obscene things with your tongues, things no decent person would ever dream of! Just how stupid do you think I am?!”

The audience boos loudly, hating on Jeri. I empathize. Damn it, stop teasing me! I want to lick whipped cream off your lovely, hard nipples!

Livia raises her hands and takes a step back from the chair. “Really, really stupid,” she says in a droll and matter-of-fact manner, “but if we’re being brutally honest here probably not that much worse than is typical of girls with mores and value systems like yours.”

Now that gets a cheer from the audience, and laughter.

“I’ll show you,” Jeri sneers. “I promise you this — every last crumb of this is going to end up exactly where I want it, and only there!”

And I do believe that’s the last thing Jeri says that night, and the last thing I personally witness her say ever. Cherry takes decisive control right then. Holding the plate by two fingers in her left hand, she holds out her right and tilts it slightly, so the slice of pie lands in the palm of her right hand. She tosses the plate aside and lifts the elastic waistband of her gauzy, loose white panties with a single finger. Then she jams her right hand, with the full slice of pie, right into her panties. She doesn’t stop there, either, like she’s trying to pass it off as one accidental movement or something — she really smears and grinds it around roughly, getting it into every fold and crevice. My heart skips a beat, realizing what will logically have to happen next. I want that pie so very, very much.

“Oopsie,” Cherry says when she finishes, totally deadpan, drawing forth a right hand painted red and white. “Well, I know the rules. I hope you’re feeling hungry, Marc.”

Yes! Yes I am! She pushes herself up again, and I slip out from under her, sliding off the recliner onto the stage floor and crawling out from between her legs. She spreads her legs wide, nearly doing the splits — I guess she can, with gymnastic training — and positions them over the arm-rests of the clear, inflatable recliner. It’s funny — I can’t see anything but red and white goo and pieces of pie crust between her legs, and yet the view looks incredibly tantalizing. I kneel in front of her and grab the elastic of the panties with two firmly clenched fists. I flex hard, tearing the panties apart and off Cherry, and hurl them into the audience.

I don’t see this right now, but the cameras catch an especially absurd moment: the pie-encrusted panties fly off into the audience, striking a cute co-ed with curly brown hair and a “Barbie!” t-shirt right in the face. She’s in the process of screaming ballistically in overheated groupie mania, and the impact does not seem to disrupt her enthusiasm or daunt her even slightly. The girl beside her starts giggling as her friend just keeps screaming maniacally for several seconds with Cherry’s panties stuck to her face, however.

I don’t exactly forget my promise to Cherry last night that this wouldn’t be a live sex show, or the assurances I give Summers’ management after the Cancer Escalation, or Livia’s structured pacing, or even my earlier thoughts about stimulation and possible anatomic limits to Livia’s hypnotism. But then that sweet cherry pie comes within an inch of my face, with those legs spread wide, and I just... don’t care about any of that and bury my face in the gates of Heaven itself.

I clasp my hands hard against her well-toned ass cheeks and grind my face into her femininity, feeling her writhe. Yes, O Groaning Readers, this is the part where I tell you the girl tastes like cherries and sweet cream, and you’re not even allowed to defend yourself by accusing me of torturing an overly flowery metaphor! She tastes like cherry pie, of course, but also with the salty and faintly metallic tang of her own deeply-responsive body — her lubrication and her sweat.

I’m genuinely a bit nuts here. I’m buried in her for about a minute before I realize I’m doing the stupid thing overly-eager guys always do when a beautiful girl lets them taste her — trying to penetrate her with their outstretched tongue rather than focusing on the clit. She’s so responsive, though, twisting her body and shoving her pussy right against me, keeping my head in place with her left hand. It’s so tempting with her, too — she has very firm, well-defined pussy lips, and pubic stubble. It scratches my mouth in a way I find oddly erotic — I’d heard the same thing about women kissing men with stubble in the romance novel prose Livia and I composed for the Make Her Blush contest, and it sounded ridiculous and stupid to me then. I actually get it now.

Her lips anchor to my face because of it rather than sliding despite how slick she is, with both pie and more natural fluids, and I can get them apart and explore the shape and taste of her labia with my tongue. I do move up to the clit, eventually. She squirms and clamps her thighs against my ears. I would think she was signaling me to stop, with her clit being too sensitive, but her hand is still holding me in place roughly. I close my mouth for a second, just nuzzling her.

While I’m oblivious between her thighs, Livia seizes the right hand she used to mash the pie around and is sensually licking the cream and filling off it one finger at a time. I only see this watching the videos after the fact, and I wince a little bit at how sexually selfish I’m being. Livia’s patter said we’d both lick things off, but there’s clearly a prime portion to be had here and I’m utterly monopolizing it as Livia shows remarkable enthusiasm on the table scraps. Still, she’s being very sensual and erotic licking the goo off of Cherry’s right hand.

She’s also standing right by Cherry, letting her look up her dangling top. And she’s just doing that, staring intensely. In retrospect, that is really good — as I explained, the “prove I’m straight” bit can be seen as fairly sophisticated satire of a puritanical mindset — but it’s good to make sure the more literally-minded members of our audience don’t miss the point.

Eventually I remember my concerns about the limits of anatomy and hypnosis. I move up just slightly, licking the tuft of pubic hair above her clit, sucking out the cherry pie filling. I clamp my lips around it and pull back slightly, teasing her by tugging the hair. She squirms and giggles madly. I trace the tip of my tongue all the way around the oval crevasse between her labia majoris and minoris, then start licking the pie filling off the rest of her groin — her thighs, her ass cheeks, even her taint. I’m actually clearing away the food, here, leaving her intimates glisteningly clean. She laughs and writhes — I guess her inner thighs are pretty ticklish.

Mimi starts another song just as I’m finishing. It’s Irene Cara’s What A Feeling. This makes sense, I guess — that’s the climax song, the one we’ll ‘kill’ Jeri with. And I think we’ve stretched this out enough, turning Jeri from the visible exterior face of Cherry into a realistic puritan, and then into a caricature of prudishness, and then into a farce no one could ever take seriously. It’s time for her to exit stage left in a suitably dramatic fashion. You’ve all seen Flashdance, right? It’s the song where the dancer gets water dumped on her in the chair. It makes sense, doesn’t it, with the wicked witch thing and Cherry’s mum being the Disco Queen and Jeri making Cherry flee a wet t-shirt contest?

Yeah, the Trips aren’t overly subtle with our symbolism, I’ll admit. But Jennifer Beals’ step-dance is hard — that’s the point of the film — and Cherry has just been psychologically tortured, had prolonged hypnotic clit-stim, been masturbated horribly by her alter ego, and gotten both fingered and eaten. We did not expect the teasing would go as far as it did, or the consequences for this bit. Cherry gets up from the chair, ready to dance, but I put a hand on her midriff and push her back in place, then quickly strip off the silly tan semi-shirt I was wearing and wipe sweat off her feet with it. She just giggles. The stage floor is timber rather than something smooth like hardwood or linoleum, so there’s at least a chance she can dance without slipping and cracking her tailbone. “Don’t try to stand on the tips of your feet right now,” I whisper to her, and offer a hand to help her up.

I should probably say something about how the third Decan was originally scripted. The hypno-schism was in the works for... I don’t even know how long. Given how Livia loves subverting classical magic tricks, she might have brainstormed bisecting a girl literally and then again hypno-figuratively before she even met me. I figured out Cherry was into disco at DanceSpace, and the whole Flashdance number just clicked perfectly. We had the inflatable chair in there before that — the inobvious motives here are to make the mark visible to the audience and have her body well-lit and visible during the climactic prolonged orgasm, but also have her on a soft surface she can’t bruise herself or break a limb on going a bit nuts physically.

There were no pies or cherries in the original routine — as you know, I sent Mimi to the store for them at the last minute. The bathroom voyeurism was there, but — based on how we read the mark — we have a translucent curtain, so the audience would only see a frosted silhouette. That would make the Flashdance bit a lot more dramatic — the French Maid getup is designed to come apart when wet, and we pulled it out of the closet and resized it for Jeri’s measurements right after she bolted from the wet t-shirt contest. So the Flashdance shower plus French Maid was a bigger deal in the original pacing, before Livia improvised a line that got Jeri to show off in a far more explicit way.

Cherry’s doing a heartfelt impression of Beals. It’s far from perfect, but given the context it’s still really impressive — and sexy, with the jumping producing lots of jiggle and the raw erotic expression on her face, and the totally exposed pussy glistening with my saliva. I’m never more than a yard from her, waiting to catch her if she gets a cramp or her legs give out. It looks a bit condescending, and I regret that — but I still think it’s wise. We don’t want any more accidents on stage!

As she dances, Mimi hits the button that causes a pull-cord with a handle on the end to descend from the camera bridge, right beside the chair. We obviously hid that away, what with it being such a well-known cultural image, to avoid giving away the climax before we played the song. It’s not long before Cherry gets to the part where she’s punching the chair on her hands and knees. Then she gets up on it and pulls the cord, and cold water cascades down on her from above in a torrent. The white lace top becomes transparent and clings to her tits, and she just stops for a second, looking almost transcendent.

Then she tries to tear it off, and it comes apart in her hands. She tosses it aside — now fully, brazenly nude. She doesn’t get up, to dance more, though — instead, she makes a come hither gesture to me, and I walk over to her. She grabs my hands and pulls herself mostly upright, arms clasping around my waist. Then she pivots sharply and we turn, and before I realize what’s happening I land on my back in the inflatable chair, and she pounces on top of me. She kisses me on the lips, with tongue, but it’s brief — a few seconds at most. Then she rotates her body again so we’re both facing the audience. We’re back to lap dancing, I guess. I have absolutely no problem with this.

“How do you feel?” I manage to whisper to her as she grinds her body.

“There is no Jeri,” she growls at me in a lusty and surprisingly low voice, “only Cherry.”

Well, we haven’t been especially subtle in our references, so I suppose I can’t fault her for that rather cheesy one. And the message is definitely a positive one.

Cherry is grinding in my lap, and it’s still really nice. There’s no longer any conflict in her voice or body. She’s got a huge, shit-eating grin and is drinking in the audience cheers as she guides my hands to her boobs again. She’s doing a weird combination of a lap dance and exultant cheerleader routine, jiving her shoulders and pumping out-thrust arms in celebratory ecstasy. It’s really cute to watch, especially with her huge smile, but it’s also pretty raw sexually — she is still grinding my cock, after all.

As the song winds down, Livia walks to Cherry’s side. “Cherry... it is Cherry, now, right?”

“Damn straight,” she grins back.

“Thank you so very much for coming on the Sexy Scandal Spectacular tonight. You’ve helped us create a deeply erotic show, for guests and hosts alike, and become one of the most memorable volunteers we’ve ever had. It took a lot of courage, and I’m very proud of you — and I have a very special prize for you, as well.”

“I’ve got a pretty good idea what that’s going to be,” Cherry laughs. “Bring in on!”

Livia flicks her wrist and stage-conjures the white envelope with the gold embossing, handing it to Cherry. “Now be aware, you don’t actually have to —”

But Cherry just tears open the envelope with rapid enthusiasm, cutting off any permissions Livia was asking, unfolding the paper. She stares at it, and her expression of exultant lust twists into something deeper, more sentimental, when she sees the word we chose. “Oh, thank you,” she says with genuine warmth to both of us. “Really, thank you.”

I’m not proud of what comes next. I should have said something warm, supportive and sincere here, but I’m really horny and even a bit intoxicated with desire for her. Thus I instead throw out a total frat move, whispering in her ear. “Thank me with your hips, baby.”

She whispers back enthusiastically, “Oh, I sure will.”

Livia snatches the paper and envelope back, and makes it combust in a burst of flame with a casual hand gesture. She saunters up to the front of the stage, holding her mike. “Marcelo?”

I squirm, moving to get up. Cherry looks at Livia. “Unless there’s a problem,” Cherry says, “Marc can stay right where he is.”

Oh, thank you so much, Cherry! Livia considers for a second. There actually is a bit of a problem with this, I belatedly remember — Livia wants to show off the hypno-orgasm, make it clear the subject is coming from the suggestion and not any stimulation I give. But she quickly relents with a smile. “Okay. You two try not to get too naughty, now.”

Livia saunters to the front of the stage.

“You know,” Livia tells the audience (and me), “after the balloons and oil bit on Monday, I’m thinking our show could use some more... ah, ‘educational’ content, especially if it’s demonstrated in a vividly memorable way. Wouldn’t you agree, Marcelo?”

This is not in the script, and I have no idea what she’s getting at — but I still answer smoothly in the most generic way possible. “Absolutely, Livia, absolutely! Anything in the name of education, right?”

“Yes, exactly! And I think it’s important that certain kinds of knowledge be shared... and I think there might be some things I could teach one or two of the girls in this room. And if you already know how it’s done, or my lesson isn’t applicable to you... well, I won’t think the worse of you if you pay unusually close attention anyway.”

Livia glances playfully at the toilet, and I suddenly get it, and my breath catches in my throat. Oh my god yeah, Livia, please do it. I want to watch that! And then I realize she’s going to do it at the same time she sets Cherry off, while she’s sitting in my lap, so she can get herself off to the prolonged results of her own hypnotic handiwork. I feel a sudden burst of sexual selfishness — I really want to taste and play with Cherry, and I really want to watch Livia masturbate before a crowd of close to a thousand people. It’s like only being able to watch the season finales of two TV shows you’ve been desperately looking forward to at the exact same time, on two TVs stacked side by side. Yes, I know: my lot is truly a terrible one, you feel so much pity, etc. I’m not saying it’s justified, just that it’s a weird thing going through my head right now.

I decide to focus as much as possible on Cherry — I’d promised to make her the center of the show last night, after all, and after another day or two I might never see her again. Livia, well, I can butter her up and ask her for a private re-enactment any time. Heck, I might even be able to get her to repeat it in a non-Escalation show for my benefit, after what I set up for her on Monday — a bit of quid pro quo.

I also feel like I should be ogling Cherry for other reasons. She has, in a weird way, become the vicarious avatar of all the girls in the audience. I’m the beefcake, the Lord of Seduction, the object of desire. We want to make the girls’ fantasies come true, so the object of desire has to be utterly enraptured by the viewer surrogate. Anything less would be defrauding the audience. And it’s really easy to be utterly enraptured by Cherry. She’s transcendent in both her beauty and her raw sexual zeal.

An oddly intellectual corner of my mind wonders if it’s bad to make a black girl the vicarious avatar of about five hundred horny, overwhelmingly white girls — if it will do anything weird to race relations, or make social problems for Cherry. But we crossed that line a while back anyway, and now is not the time to think it out. It will probably make the girl-cliques at DanceSpace very unhappy, and that pleases me — they nearly got my head caved in, after all. And then the warm flesh of Cherry’s soft tits presses against my face, and all thoughts of a sociological nature are abruptly obliterated as my consciousness shifts fully into the realm of the senses.

“But first,” Livia continues, “I want you to give all your love and support to our very special guest tonight — and a good dose of your lust is welcome too. Show her your support!”

The audience cheers and claps loudly. “Well, what are you waiting for, my permission? People, say her name!”

“Cher-REE!”

Cherry visibly convulses in my arms. Rationally I know it’s all muscle movement and the power of suggestion, but it’s shockingly realistic — you would think an invisible ghost just shoved his cock in her, balls-deep. Her fingers dig almost painfully into mine. The audience, having seen several ero-hyp triggers by now, figures out what the deal is very quickly.

“Cher-REE!”

“Mmph!”

“Cher-REE!”

“Ooh!”

“Cher-REE!”

“Oh my god!”

“Cher-REE!”

“Gyaah!”

“Cher-REE!”

“Ghh!”

“Cher-REE!”

“Oh god,” Cherry shouts, “I’m coming!”

Right on time, Mimi hits some switches. The digital timer starts counting down from twelve minutes, and the first of the three songs we’ve chosen (and cut) to match that exact time starts. It’s painfully on the nose to fit our intentionally tacky style, just like all the music we’ve used tonight: Anita Ward’s Ring My Bell.

What do you think it would be like to hold a beautiful, naked young girl as she has a prolonged hypnotic orgasm? Prior to tonight, I thought it would be a deeply sexy but subtle voyeuristic surge, that I would feel aroused and thrilled but still quite composed as she moaned and sighed in my lap. Of course, I wasn’t originally scripted to be holding her — but she asked. And the orgasm isn’t subtle. She starts out a screamer, but that dies down into low vocal moans and purring after the first minute. But the body language... that doesn’t die down. I can see her thighs, her clit, her whole vaginal opening, clench and pulse. It’s eerie, the response so impressive as to be nearly supernatural. And her whole body trembles and shudders, and this just doesn’t stop.

I realize now how clever Livia is. There has been no monologue about the utter extremes of pleasure, the limits of how much the human body can withstand, the raw intensity, sensory overload and transcendent ecstasy. She doesn’t have to brag about any of that, or suggest it, or foreshadow it, because it isn’t a trick — she (or, I guess, we) really do raise Cherry to those heights so desperately sought-after by libertines, perverts and trailblazers exploring the undiscovered country that is the realm of the senses. We don’t need to be hucksters, because the product is absolutely authentic and we can just show it off.

The audience is quiet, now. There’s a sense of awe. Even I am a bit shocked by the raw, visceral intensity of it. We talked about it before-hand, of course. Livia and Mimi have first-hand experience with it — Livia has done this for Mimi, and the two of them have shared girls in a state like this. It took some practice and refinement to get it to this intensity, after all, and to figure out the practical safety things like the chair. And they’ve talked about this with me, in academic terms, but I’ve never seen it live — let alone held it in my lap as it quivered and writhed uncontrollably. It’s eye-opening, and awe-inspiring, and I’m getting hard again very quickly.

It is about a minute and a half into the orgasm that I realize I am going to have a problem, of the same kind I had the first night I met Livia. I can’t truthfully say this has only happened to me twice in my life — as a young teen I was a total hair-trigger kind of guy. I’ve become a skilled pickup artist consciously studying sexual techniques for at least six years, however, and I can say this is the second time this has been an issue in the last five years — with the first being the night I met Livia.

Even I have limits — from Mimi’s bimbo costume to the radio control bikini loss and the mass of topless girls on stage, to meeting Emily, hearing tantalizing scraps about what I got Lucy and Gloria to do, and then the profoundly naughty stunt with the Daughters of the New Century, and then teasing Jeri, leading her around as a bunny feeding the crowd cherries, and then watching her spread her legs and masturbate, and then the lap dance... well, you can understand I’m feeling a bit stimulated by this point. And Cherry... Livia and I both refer to her as a little firecracker, and that’s pretty apt. She just has so much pent-up energy, yearning and desire. She’s not giving me a lap dance now, exactly — it’s hard to do that when having an extended orgasm, after all. But she’s in my lap, and she sure is squirming, and trembling, and so very arousing to watch and feel.

I’m doing all the mental mantras and blood flow shit I know, and it’s slowing things down — but not by enough. By two minutes I know there was no way I’ll last another full ten minutes. I also don’t really want to. I want my own orgasm, at the same time Cherry is having hers, with her hot quivering body pressed against mine. And Livia can cover it with patter, right? Just another easy humiliation routine. There’s tons of easy, canned jokes about men with easy triggers. I am willing to endure some humiliation in exchange for a really good orgasm — it never dents my ego in the slightest, and I can be pretty shameless in pursuit of pleasure.

Cherry has an incredible grip. I’m not usually a masochist — you can spank me, but I don’t normally go in for real pain beyond that. This is an exception. Cherry grips my hands or my thighs really hard in her ecstasy, hard enough to scratch and even draw blood. And it’s very erotic to me, because it’s a direct product of her own pleasure, a means of communicating the bottomless well of ecstasy she is tumbling down into at another human being, tactilely.

I’ve read the phrase toe-curling a dozen times recently for the Make Her Blush prep, but when I look down at Cherry’s feet I find it surprisingly literal. She holds her legs tightly together at times, very straight, feet in the air, with her toes curled sharply inward. And then she rubs the ankle of one leg with the base of the other for that extra little bit of stimulation... okay, don’t look at the long lovely legs too much. Calm down, deep breath, look at something else.

Meanwhile, Livia saunters back over to the mock bathroom. She doesn’t get on the toilet and spread her legs like Cherry did. Instead, she walks behind it and pushes — remember, all the parts of the “bathroom” are on little rolling stage coasters — and doesn’t stop until it’s a yard and a half from the inflatable recliner. She turns the toilet so it’s angled toward both the audience and the recliner, and only then does she walk around, sit down on the seat like Cherry had and spread her legs. She slides a hand into those tight blue panties, and starts flicking and rubbing herself very sensually. And she divides her time between staring out at the audience proudly and totally shamelessly, and staring directly at me and Cherry with an undisguised, wickedly intense lust. Yeah, watch that real close, dumbass — I’m sure that will help you last longer. No, don’t visualize the Shannon Tweed devil saying this to you, that’s not going to help either.

Cherry spins around and faces me, making really intense eye contact as the prolonged orgasm twists her body around. I can feel her breath. Well, now I basically know what my Eyefucking feels like from the other side. (If you’re thinking that will make me more restrained with it in the future... not so much, really.) Livia’s masturbation eventually catches her gaze, though, and she turns to stare at that with all the irresistible magnetism it would have on me if I didn’t have certain knowledge that I will have free sexual access to Livia for months, if not years. Oh, god, now she’s kind of... slithering on me, for lack of a better term.

I’m not gonna make twelve minutes, but I do make three and a half when the painfully on-the-nose Ring My Bell winds down. Next up will be Donna Summer’s Hot Stuff — but I have a moment to speak while the music is soft and decide to use it. I’ve got an idea that I think will not only cover up what my body’s about to do, it will make one of my co-workers very, very happy. I’m actually disconcerted by how composed I sound on the tapes, all suave poker-faced confidence — so different from the real internal experience I’m sharing here. “Mimi, love? Would you bring us those last two pies? Try not to have a bimbo moment and spill anything — or I’ll make you lick it up.”

I don’t catch this at the time, but you can see this wonderful, dumbstruck, happy smile cross Mimi’s face as she just stands there for a few seconds, stunned, processing what I just told her. The crowd has a brief intermission in shouting Cherry’s name. She’s still coming, droplets of feminine moisture running down her long legs, but she gets a bit of a breather while no longer being pounded by phantasmal cock. She takes the opportunity to grind me again — I have no doubt she can feel my hard, material cock. I’m guessing that’s actually the point — she’s not consciously teasing me, she just wants sensation, stimulation beyond the orgasm, and enjoys the feel of my erection pressing into her body, just like she enjoyed rubbing her ankles with her feet.

Livia doesn’t give her long, however. “What, are you people getting tired? She’s got over eight minutes left! Don’t you want to show the lady a good time? Say her name!”

“Cher-REE! Cher-REE! Cher-REE!”

I watch Mimi saunter up to us with a pie in each hand. I notice that she’s barefoot, having ditched the heels by the table. Wise girl — so many people freeze up and just fumble when given the opportunity to truly indulge their fetishes. My order would get really awkward really fast if she dropped the pies on the dirty stage floor, but she doesn’t. She does stumble and wave her arms about once or twice, but it’s all the kind of stock pantomime acting people holding pies do in slapstick films — it looks good overall. When she reaches us, Cherry is facing me again. Her head is against mine, in a position to whisper in my ear, but she’s not whispering — just gasping rhythmically and clutching at me.

Each time the audience shouts her name, her body visibly jolts. Her hands thrash, and seize on anything — the chair, my biceps, my hands — to grasp like a vise. The first pie lands on her back, directly between her rippling shoulder blades — brilliant splatters of white and deep translucent red running down taut flesh the tone of varnished mahogany. I will learn later that Cherry is not that into WAM, per se — she’ll indulge for a partner, but it’s not a huge thing for her. What is, however, is various kinds of tactile stimulation. The pie really works for her — not because it’s messy but because it’s a sudden cold on her back during the orgasm, in the same sense that ice cubes get brought into the bedroom for. It probably helps that the two of us have built up some substantial body heat by this time. She convulses sharply as the sticky mess runs down her back. Hands thrash and clench. “Gyaah! Aoh! Ohh!”

She only takes a few seconds to enjoy the sensation, however. Then, without warning, she spins around again to face Mimi and the audience — she’s gotten really good at rotating that way by this point. She grabs my hands and grinds me for a few seconds — I’m right on the edge now, but I don’t come just yet. Then she presses both of her hands firmly into the arm rests and pushes herself up off my body, like a gymnast on parallel beams, for a second. She spreads her legs wide, and sets her thighs on the arm-rest. Her out-thrust pussy is the whole focus of her posture, and she’s about two feet higher than I am — her spread legs are level with my navel and abs.

She slaps herself between the legs, clearly indicating what she wants Mimi to do with the last pie. So she does — giving up on the slapstick body language and just shoving the whole pie into Cherry’s widespread legs. And Cherry seems to really like that. She convulses again, as the audience shouts her name — they’ve gotten smarter, now, only doing it once every five or ten seconds, but doing it in unison; they’re managing some collective pacing.

I briefly glance over. Livia’s really going at it. She’s got three fingers in there, with only the pinky tucked away, and when she pushes them all the way in she can flick her own clit with her thumb. And she’s spread wide, totally devoid of any shame or embarrassment, gaze passing through the audience and back to the recliner. She’s all wet, now, and lost the panties somewhere along the way to show off her full natural bush. She’s neither rough or gentle, she’s just showing that she really knows her body. I’m reasonably sure a few people in the crowd — of both genders — have been egged on by her and now have their own hands in their pants. But clothing doesn’t seem to be coming off, and this isn’t spreading through the whole crowd. That’s probably good — it would give the business a very different tone if the whole crowd started masturbating.

Mimi is leaning down now, kneeling, spreading the pie along Cherry’s legs. Cherry puts one hand on my shoulder and pushes herself more upright — then uses the other hand to grab a handful of Mimi’s puffy blonde hair and force her head between her legs. Mimi doesn’t especially resist — she was probably waiting for permission — and slowly begins eating Cherry. I can’t see much of what she’s doing with the pie mess there. Mimi’s huge cans somehow end up out of her latex one-piece costume. My torso, balloon pants and briefs are plastered with pie mess by this point — so no one will notice any, ah, extra stains. Cherry slips out of her precarious perch and lands back on my body with a hard slap.

Her ass starts grinding me again, and I wonder if that’s intentional — if she wants to get me off during her own orgasm. And she’s firmly holding Mimi’s face exactly where she wants it. Well, regardless of her desires, it’s definitely about to happen. I sweep pie mess off Cherry’s back and rub it around on her chest, flicking her hard nipples and covering her jiggling breasts with creamy goo. I lick the nape of her neck playfully, and she grinds my cock in response. It’s so amazing. I’m not nervous — I just relax and enjoy the sensation of Cherry’s body trembling against mine and her ass grinding my cock. I’m horny, and fantastically attracted to Cherry, and I want to enjoy this moment for all it’s worth.

And then... it happens. The audience shouts Cherry’s name, and she convulses. Her hands, covered with pie mess, can’t get a firm grip on anything. One of them slides down my torso and right into my shorts, bringing with it a bunch of cold pie filling. I’m not immune to temperature stim either. I convulse, and her hand closes really tightly around my cock — almost painfully. She pulls it out of my pants! No! That’s not supposed to happen!

I look down. It’s like everything is suddenly in slow motion. Cherry is still elevated relative to me, but her groin in only an inch or two above my now-unleashed cock. Mimi was leaning over to suck her clit, and sees Cherry’s hand gripping my cock. I can see her ginormous breasts bouncing and heaving. I can’t really warn them, without also alerting the audience. Ladies, I’m so sorry — this one’s gonna be a volcano...

The audience doesn’t see me ejaculate — Mimi’s back is to them, her body obstructing the view. The first string of cum shoots out and hits Mimi’s left breast, all but obscuring the left nipple. The next jet lands on one of the hot magenta parts of her costume. The third lands on the smooth mahogany of Cherry’s right knee. The fourth on the pale flesh of Mimi’s lower neck. I’m more worried about getting it on Mimi than Cherry, honestly, given what I know about each of them. I lose track of some of it. I finally get my hands on Cherry’s shoulders and push her downward, so my hard cock is crushed against the small of her back. It continues to spurt, my cum mixing invisibly into the miasma of pie mess already there. Cherry can presumably feel its warmth on her back, though, as she grins up at me wickedly.

It goes on and on. Mimi doesn’t seem nauseated or angry — she just lets out a slight “eep!”, giggles and quickly rubs the pie mess from her face down over her breasts and costume, concealing anything else stuck there. Then she dives back between Cherry’s legs as Donna Summer croons about the hot stuff she’s going to get tonight — having been there just recently, I can understand how it so transfixes Mimi’s thoughts. I play it reasonably cool, keeping Cherry’s back against my groin until the boner dies down enough to slip it back in my pants without an obvious body language giveaway. Probably a few people in the audience notice that, but not the majority. You can make it out on our later, uncensored tapes, if you know to look for it — but it doesn’t leap out at you, so to speak.

Hot Stuff winds down and Jackson’s The Way You Make Me Feel starts up. The crowd chants Cherry’s name more rapidly as the song climaxes, and it gets harder to keep eating Cherry with her convulsing, thrusting and flailing. Mimi eventually stands up and then sits in the inflatable beside me. I press my left leg against her right, and we position Cherry to ride both our legs at the same time. Every member of the Trips — myself, Livia and Mimi — have indulged ourselves more than was scripted, but it’s important that we let the audience see Cherry come on her own.

She must be stimulated by the hypnotism, fucked by the voice of the audience itself. And they do just that, shouting her name with growing frequency as Jackson’s song grows to it’s crescendo. Cherry is writhing from hypnotic orgasm and phantasmal cock, and yet she still somehow manages to be doing it in time to the very distinctive, idiosyncratic beat of the pop star’s power ballad. And she alternatively thrusts out her groin at the audience brazenly and grinds it hard against my and Mimi’s paired legs.

Livia has been staring at us intently the whole time. She finally brings herself to a climax, her thighs trembling, staring at Cherry as she enjoys the writhing results of her own hypnotic handiwork. Then she licks off her fingers unabashedly, picks up the microphone and says, “You see, ladies? There are real advantages to knowing your own body... and what it can be made to do with the right kinds of stimulation.”

She pulls the blue and white panties back up. Then, for the remainder of the Jackson ballad she walks behind the inflatable chair and just watches, occasionally reaching one finger out to scoop pie goo off my, Cherry’s or Mimi’s bodies to lick up sensually. When the digital timer gets to thirty seconds left of the twelve minutes, Mimi and I each start flicking one of Cherry’s nipples, and Livia leans down to give her another lip-locking kiss. At five seconds, every muscle in Cherry’s body goes stiff and tense as the prolonged orgasm reaches its final peak.

When it hits zero, Cherry collapses. Her body goes fully limp, and I can see she’s asleep. The audience gets the idea and stops chanting her name. We did exhaust her, after all, and passing out is a good way to avoid any embarrassment after the fact. I stand up, make sure my own footing is good, and then pick Cherry up in my arms. Mimi runs over to the control station and starts packing it up.

Livia walks to the front of the stage. “Ladies and gentlemen... I hope you enjoyed the show as much as we did, ‘cause this one was pretty intense! The Gemini Escalation is now complete! Love is the will, love under law.”

Cue navy and orange smoke. Exit stage, well, center — cause that’s just how the Summers lounge area is built.