The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“You know,” I tell Cathy backstage right before we go back out, “you can still bolt out of here.” These words will be deliciously ironic later, and I know it.

“It’s okay,” she says, glancing between me and Livia. “You both seem like really nice people. Even if things got a little, uh, racy out there, it was all in good fun.”

“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “We’ll all have lots of fun.” I meet her gaze and help her visualize the kind of fun I really want to have with her. She makes an odd, pleasant little squeaking sound and doesn’t say anything. The three of us go back on stage together.

During the intermission, I’ve wheeled a large object covered by a black satin curtain out on to the very center of the stage. It’s ten feet tall, on a base six feet wide and long. Neither I nor Livia say anything about it. The crowd obviously has something else on their minds, as the chant starts up again: “Get Cathy naked! Get Cathy naked! Get Cathy naked!”

Most girls would be threatened by that. Cathy isn’t. She’s blushing, and I think she’s pleased by it. Livia gives her a slight sympathy hug, devoid of salacious intent. “Well,” the magician says, “I think we know what the crowd wants.”

Cathy shrugs. “I suppose I should take it as a compliment, really.”

Thing is, I can tell she does take it as a compliment, and knows how to give different signals about that to different social cliques.

Livia presses on. “They’re not likely to get it, though, are they? I understand you have something of a reputation around here as an unattainable treasure, the Forbidden Fruit of the Big Noodle.”

“Um. A lady has to have some self-respect.”

“Look at me. I’m not a modest lady, and I have a lot of fun with my vanity. Just between us girls, I think we can both agree, at least, that it’s nice to be wanted?”

Cathy demurs.

I think Livia is toying with her prey a little bit too much at this point. We both know what Cathy wants, and that she wants someone else to blame for it. So I step in. “Would you be willing to do one more quick routine with us?”

“Umm... yeah, okay.”

She doesn’t ask what it involves or show suspicion. She barely even manages the bare minimum of poorly-feigned reluctance. “Should I go sit by the Newton’s —”

Livia snaps her fingers sharply in Cathy’s face and says, “Trance!”

Instantly, her hands drop to her sides and her eyes go dead — and the crowd goes nuts. Livia quickly clamps a pair of headphones back over Cathy’s head before ill-mannered fraternity chants ruin the tone entirely.

“Listen, you barmy tossers!” Livia shouts. “Chill out with the bleedin’ chants! They are not productive to getting what you want!”

The chanting stops — and the implication of what it called for being possible causes several sharp intakes of breath. Yeah, we have their full attention.

Livia starts to swagger around the stage, taking on the body language of a cocky ringleader as she talks to the audience. “Ladies, gentlemen, less-than-gentle-men, I need to tell you I’ve been billed as Lascivious Livia the Naughty Magician for a year and a half now, but I’m a big believer in people earning the titles they claim. So I think it’s long past time that I do something really, deeply, pervasively naughty, don’t you? After all, if I don’t, there’d be a bit of false advertising at work, wouldn’t there? So if you want the third Decan show to be something really obscene and naughty, give me a fuck yeah!”

“Fuck yeah!”

Jesus, I feel that ring throughout my bones. The crowd is officially kind of scary now. Of course, that doesn’t stop Livia from taunting them. “Well, too bad!” she shoots back. “My doctor says I’m not allowed to pull any more Christmas lights out of my hoo-hah until the infection clears up!”

The crowd laughs, but it’s short and vaguely irritable. There’s one thing they want right now, and it’s not a standup line-o-rama show.

I walk over to Cathy. “Wow, Cathy,” I say, “you look kind of rank.”

No response from the entranced coed, her eyes staring blankly ahead. “I guess that’s to be expected after doing fifty jumping jacks. Got a bit of pit sweat worked up there.”

The crowd boos. I’m the villain now; they don’t see where I’m going with this, and don’t like anyone insulting the girl on the pedestal. But I don’t care. I go on with the routine, setting up the scenario.

“Cathy, you feel grimy.”

“I feel grimy.”

“I bet you can’t wait to get home and jump in the shower.”

Cathy nods blankly.

“I’ll call you a cab.”

Now, Livia has a great love of performance flair in her work. When we worked out this routine, she wanted to get a bumper car, of the sort they might have beside the roller coasters and Ferris wheels at an amusement park. She had an idea for a comedic spectacle she fell in love with — Mimi as a fake cab driver escorting a mark “home” in a bumper car. Turns out, though, that those things are both really heavy and only run on specialized electric floors.

So we scoured mail-order toy catalogues for a plastic pedal-scooter big enough for two adults — a hard find in itself — and then we made the metal frame of a bumper car from coat hangers and paper mache, and painted it to give the visual image of being a bumper car while being light enough for a normal woman to lift in one hand or drive by pedal with a passenger of similar weight.

Now, that may seem an insane amount of frivolous work to put into an intentionally tacky prop for a routine that is fundamentally focused on cute coeds being coaxed into giving up the goodies. But, as Livia told me, “glamour is born from elbow grease,” and it really is the glamour and spectacle that makes the cute girls’ tops come off — and moreso, elevates the show into something people will remember. The routine has to be funny in the same way that women always say they want a guy they would date to be funny — a way that puts the raunchy bits into a spirit of good cheer. And our bumper car prop likely helps do that — not for Cathy, who is already firmly hooked, but it will make it easier for all the women watching what will come next to mentally categorize it as “a fun if risqué evening” rather than “gross, sleazy and scary”.

For me, though, the best part of the bumper car gag is Mimi in a sexy, midriff-baring valet girl costume. It makes me wish so hard she wasn’t a lesbian. Like a perfect gentleman, I help Cathy into the “cab” and ask the “valet” to take her home. Mimi has her full bimbo persona in overdrive, mixed up with a caricature New York cabbie — cigar and all. She huffs and puffs as she drives the toy scooter by pedal around the edge of the stage once, then twice; she’s gurning wildly and clearly enjoying the hell out of her role on stage — brief as it may be. And she really is adorable — she’s much more suited to a caricatural but sympathetic role than she was to being a corrupt security guard, even if the memory of the latter still gives me a charge of fetishistic electricity.

Cathy, for her part, stares blankly forward with glassy eyes as she’s carted around the stage, deeply entranced. Our mark finally steps out of the cab and Livia takes her by the arm, pantomiming walking her up the front stairs of her condo and into the elevator, pressing an imaginary floor button in mid-air.

Livia switches her microphone so both the audience and Cathy can hear her. She’s building anticipation. I’m not sure how necessary this is for Cathy — when she’s in trance we could probably just bluntly order her (“You are alone. Strip!”), and I suspect she would do it. I might even be able to charm her clothes off without hypnosis. For the audience, though, this is positively electric. We’re creating the illusion of violating Cathy’s intimacy in grand theatrical style, and it’s deliciously voyeuristic and sleazy. We’re inviting all the frat guys to imagine what it would be like to have a perfectly obedient Cathy-toy waiting for them in their own dorm rooms.

“Cathy, you’re alone in your own condo now. You feel safe. Why don’t you let your hair down?”

Cathy unclasps her triangle-earrings and sets them on a silver waiter’s tray Livia holds out — no doubt, in her mind, on a shelf or dresser in her apartment. Her bracelets follow a moment later. Then she reaches up and undoes her bun, shaking out her long, strawberry blonde hair like she’s auditioning for a shampoo commercial. The crowd cheers, delighted, and Livia continues her calm narration. “Yes, possum, that’s good. No one can see you, and there’s a part of you that faintly regrets that. You feel grimy and can’t wait to take a shower. But you also feel ambivalent. You watched all those other girls lose their tops, you watched that poor innocent TA get stripped by those terrible magicians. And you couldn’t help but feel a bit excited. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” Cathy says, “a lot excited. And horny.”

Trance subjects usually give no detail in replies unless prompted, but that apparently just comes out. Maybe it needed to. Maybe it’s something Cathy had longed to say out loud for a while now. But none the less, we want to get her clothes off, not have her confess her fantasies to the auditorium while in trance. We can strip (and even gleefully humiliate) Cathy, and she can blame us as the instigators and go back to her normal social life relatively undisturbed. But if she starts confessing weird kinks unprompted, things will be a little different.

Livia covers for her adeptly. “Yes, that naughty magician told you to feel horny, and now you feel so incredibly horny. All over. It tingles throughout your body. You’ve been longing to do something lewd for ages, haven’t you? To show everyone what’s under those conservative clothes you wear.”

“Yes,” she says decisively.

The audience cheers — and chokes and coughs. I get the impression some of the most aggressive frat guys have actually strained their vocal chords.

“But you’re shy. You’ve always been too shy to do something like that when people are around for real. You’re sweating. You’re hot. It’s so hot. Why don’t you get in the shower, Cathy? You can take your clothes off inside.”

Livia makes a gesture at the curtained object. The curtain fails to fall — Mimi is probably running back to her control booth in the Scarlet Lady just outside the auditorium after the cab sketch — so I just walk over and tear it down. This reveals a shower stall on wheels. Not a stall, precisely — a six foot square tiled floor with the edges rounded up about half a foot, and then a tall, rectangular metal skeleton rising ten feet up to a shower head in the absent ceiling. (There’s also an industrial water pump, water heater and tanks mounted in an assembly attached to the back.)

There are no walls; the structure gives the suggestion of a cubicle through its aluminum frame while in reality being totally open-air — and totally exposing the occupant to the outside world. There are a total of eight miniature camcorders concealed in the frame to give a variety of views of the occupant, at least two of which are deviously inappropriate.

Cathy steps into the cubicle. “You want to feel the water wash over you,” Livia purrs. “Don’t worry about getting your clothes wet. You’ll need to wash them tomorrow anyway... except, maybe, the water may not do great things to that bra. Why don’t you take it off?”

Cathy reaches up and unhooks her bra, pulling it out through the neck of her shirt. It’s a really sturdy bra, not a sexy one — Cathy is, as I’ve said, righteously stacked, and she apparently needs some substantial support in her daily life. Without the bra, her tits droop slightly. She’s hot, but she’s not model-template perfect — not fat, but also not the rail-thin look popular with models and starlets. Her breasts, easily a double D, swing pendulously inside the striped shirt without the bra to hold them firm.

“Reach up and turn on the water,” Livia says. “You want to feel it cleanse the grime and sweat from your body.”

Cathy does so. Warm water cascades down on her from above — not perhaps the flow rate a real shower might give, but still enough to soak through her braless top and tight tan slacks. The light in the fake shower booth highlights how the wet clothes cling to, and accent, her body.

“You feel radiant and full of energy again — and very proud of your body. You do have a magnificent body, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Cathy says with no ambivalence. “I do. Everyone wants it, and I love that. It makes me feel so nice. I like the things people say about it, about me. Even, especially, the mean things.”

“Your clothes are all wet now. You should probably take them off. But you can’t help but imagine what it would have been like to do that in public, back at the auditorium, with all those boys watching — a chance to show all the sorority girls and frat hunks that you’re not so reserved and modest after all. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh god,” Cathy says. “Yes!”

“Why don’t you take those wet clothes off, Cathy? Do it slowly, piece by piece. Imagine that you’re doing what you’ve never done in real life. Show them your stripper moves. You’re alone, it’s just a fantasy, it can’t hurt anything, right? And if you get a bit worked up, well, you’ve surely heard about how a girl can use a shower head to release tension, right? You know you want to do it. It’s almost like you can hear phantom music in your head...”

Mimi is apparently back in the Scarlet Lady by this time, because on that cue, the auditorium’s sound system (and Cathy’s headphones) begin to pipe out the opening bars of our special extended remix of You Can Leave Your Hat On... and the crowd goes wild yet again. The moment that everyone has been waiting for all night has finally arrived.

I scrutinize the crowd. Boys and girls, youth and adult, everyone is focused on the shower. Misdirection achieved. I press a button on my mike to signal Mimi. The auditorium lighting, already dim, fades to near absolute blackness. The shower stall has its own lighting, well set up to show its occupant with maximum clarity free of either glare or murkiness.

No one is watching the south wall with the main exit, where earlier Mimi had brought in the bumper car. There’s a lighted red “Exit” sign above the main doors, of the type schools usually have over their metal fire doors. That sign winks out. One effectively identical to it winks on two seconds later, thirty feet distant along the same wall. Astute readers might guess at the humiliating trick we just set up; the rest of you can wait and watch it play out in all its depraved glory.

Mimi flashes a closeup view of Cathy’s wet, clinging striped shirt and the ample bust it barely conceals on the overhead projector. Blown up to that scale, her protuberant nips and the stretched fabric surrounding them resemble a bird’s eye view of twin, spired circus tents. I grin madly at the oblivious co-ed and make cartoony breast-groping gestures with my hands. Livia mutes Cathy’s headphones and whispers to the audience in her best naughty conspirator voice. “You know, we got our spycams at an amazing discount. I guess Chuck Berry didn’t want to be seen with them any more.”

That gets a few nervous laughs, but the crowd is mostly fixated on the striptease.

Cathy is playing with the buttons on her shirt. She’s moving with the music. She’s not an athlete, and she lacks dance skills, but she is horny and it’s the iconic horny girl song, and she manages to be very sultry none the less. Her hands stroke her body, sometimes roughly squeezing and kneading her own breasts or thighs. Her eyes are closed, and her expression is blissful. She enjoys the water droplets striking her skin. She finally figures out the shirt only has three buttons and won’t come all the way undone. I wonder what striptease she was imagining in her mind? Something from an old movie, perhaps. She reaches down to the hem of the shirt and starts raising it, ever so gradually.

I can’t actually say she’s a natural stripper. A stripper has to be kinetic, hyper-energetic and very athletic; coordinated and sexually aggressive. Her undressing is more sensual; it’s perfectly suited to the song we chose, a more classical kind of Jazz strip than you would ever see in a modern club. It depends a lot on people knowing the girl and really wanting to see what’s under her clothes before they actually come off, rather than the modern stripper being both a tease and eyecatch to men who are seeing her for the first time mid-strip. I will say I doubt this is the first time Cathy has done a private fantasy strip like this, though it’s certainly the first time she was actually in public.

We get underboob. The shirt keeps climbing. Her nipples are so erect it actually catches on one, pulling the ample breast an inch up before it pops free and bounces back down responsively. Her chest is amazing — the kind of huge natural tits that are expected to dangle a bit, and always face the direction their owner was facing exactly one second prior until they swing back to compensate like a pendulum. She holds the shirt aloft in one hand, raising it as high as she can above her head before dropping it at her feet.

It’s the moment the crowd has been waiting for, but they’re not actually going apeshit — it’s more like they’re awed and entranced. I wonder if they believed this was really going to happen, or if those who knew Cathy thought it would just be her teasing them like usual?

Cathy doesn’t stop; neither, fortunately, does our extended remix. She runs her hands over her body in a way that might be called sensual, but could also honestly be called masturbatory — the way a person of either gender grips, clenches and paws themselves when they get near a climax in said personal act. Her hands navigate to her clingy slacks and unbutton them. She loses rhythm wiggling out of them, but the imperfection is in itself adorable. She sloughs off her sneakers and socks, and peels down the wet pants until they lie in a heap at her feet. Her breasts gyrate and bounce as she struggles to get the slacks off, finally tossing the heap of wet clothes out the front of the stall. They land on the auditorium floor with a splorch.

Cathy stands up with a flair and shakes her wet hair around, spraying droplets everywhere thanks to the shower’s lack of walls and even giving me and Livia a light sprinkling. Her panties are plain white cotton rather than anything explicitly sexy... but plain white cotton looks rather nice wet, and some details can be made out inside them. Those details look puffy and red, pretty worked up. She hooks her fingers into the elastic rim of the panties and pulls at it playfully... then seems to decide better and slides her hand inside it for a few moments.

She rubs herself a bit, opening her mouth with pleasure. Water pools inside it, and runs in rivulets down every curve of her body. She gasps, slightly, and brings her hands up from her crotch to sweep the wet hair out of her face. She has her eyes closed this whole time. Who showers with their eyes closed? It’s like she’s living out a fantasy, having no idea that tonight it’s actually becoming a reality. She looks so intense, so yearning, with her hair slicked back like that. It takes away the style and social falsity of an elaborate perm and turns it into something raw and passionate.

Cathy’s hands slide back down her body, feeling it up, pawing it, and hooking the panties with her thumbs, pulling them down without any hesitation. Her curly, strawberry blonde pubic hair is matted to her pussy lips. She steps out of them demurely.

Livia is only three feet from Cathy. She has a hand out, not touching her but hovering around her exploratorily. All her stage bravado is gone. I can tell she’s perving on Cathy’s naked body really, really hard — I wonder if, ironically, she’s a bit hypnotized herself. She unhooks the portable shower head — not the same one the water was previously coming out of at the top of the booth — turns it on and hands it to Cathy, almost fumbling it. Livia, fumble a prop? Really? That’s truly a sign of how deep some of her kinks must run. “Use the shower head, lovey,” Livia more gasps than commands. “Use it now!”

Cathy fumbles her hands over the object, wondering what it is, until she finally remembers Livia’s earlier suggestion. She leans back against one of the corner pylons. I grab the opposite pylon to counterbalance it — I don’t want the shower stall to fall over, or less dramatically but crushingly anticlimactically, for it to tilt enough to make Cathy feel unstable, and thus unsafe, and thus end her trance. But it doesn’t shift; we built it sturdy.

Cathy squats down, bending her knees... and spreading her legs. She tests the water from the portable head with her hand... and then, after a second, apparently approves of it, adjusting the dial to make the water jets more intense before she places it between her legs, about a foot away from her pussy. She doesn’t put on any grand performance, but her quickened breathing and subtle trembling is more effective than any porn star’s attention grabbing power-moans.

“That shower head makes the most wonderful sound,” Livia whispers. “Tonight, whenever you hear that ‘brrr’, you’re going to feel this overwhelming stimulation of your clit, and sexual pleasure will surge though your body uncontrollably.”

Now, this part I almost feel bad about. The girl has spent at least the last few years of her life harboring intense sexual fantasies of being humiliated. She dates frat guys who spread lewd tales about her, and follows those tales obsessively, for the sole purpose of vicarious self-humiliation. She came on stage to be humiliated. We showed her what to expect, and now we’re just upping the ante a bit. What we do is still both terrible and awesome, though.

You see, that heavy shower head is one of Livia’s trick props. The edges contain a dozen intense water jets. In the center, though, is the well-disguised, waterproof lens for a miniature spycam. It’s after about twenty seconds of Cathy’s water-masturbation that Mimi decides the audience has had enough comparatively subtle shots (or she just finally gets the focus right).

So, yeah. Overhead projector. Fourteen foot wide matte pull-down screen on the east wall. Crystal-clear closeup between the spread legs of the perfect girl next door, the Forbidden Fruit of the Big Noodle. A focused water jet striking an erect valedictorian clit. Engorged crimson pussy lips dribbling water and more intimate fluids. All this framed with firm thighs flushed red and violently trembling on the verge of orgasm. It’s cinematic and over-the-top and horrible and cruel and perfect. But we don’t want to let Cathy orgasm yet, not while she still thinks this is all imaginary. Well, I don’t. I think Livia may be forgetting the script in her estrogen-fueled ogling of the glistening coed. “Snap her out,” I whisper quietly but intensely.

Livia shakes her head and speaks quickly into the microphone. “Cathy, when I snap my fingers, you will come to full awareness. You will have a crystal clear knowledge of where you are, what you have done and why.”

A few points before we get to the climax. First of all, the lighting is very focused on the shower — it, and Cathy, are crystal clear while the rest of the auditorium is murky. Secondly, we’d moved the gym mats used in the jumping jacks segment around a bit while Mimi was driving Cathy around in the “cab”, to ensure the safety of what was to come next. We do think of these things, you know — we can be cruel to our marks in service to the Great God Fetish, when we think they’ll get as much out of it as we will, but we do also try to be attentive to their safety and well-being.

What comes next is, if I may brag on behalf of the whole Trips team, one of the most beautifully choreographed moments of prurient comedy the world has ever seen.

Livia snaps her fingers in front of Cathy’s face. Her eyes go very, very wide as full conscious awareness floods back into her. She struggles to get upright. I hook my hands under her arms and lift her up so she doesn’t slip and fall. Her hands dart to cover her breasts and pussy in the perfect iconic pose of the mortified naked lady.

“Oh my god, I’m naked!” she wails.

Livia smirks like a maniac. “Wave to the blokes, possum! They’re all delighted to be seeing so much of you!”

Cathy’s eyes flash over the crowd, staring transfixed at her as she realizes where she is and what she just did. She screams in panic. And, as any sensible person would do in her situation, she bolts with the energy of an enraged sprinter. Everywhere around the well-lit shower is murky, but there’s an obvious source of succor in the darkness: the bright red “Exit” sign she still thinks is above the main doors.

Her path is lined with gymnastics mats that even her wet feet find good purchase on. We don’t want her to faceplant onto a hard gym floor and crack a vertebra, after all. We do have a 500fps slow-motion lowlight camera trained directly on the path we put her own, however, and it catches all the most aesthetically pleasing and pruriently entertaining aspects of a young lady amply endowed by nature and deprived of any upper-chest support by devious circumstance performing an admirable simulation of the fifty-yard dash.

Mimi’s timing with the lights is absolutely spot-on. The area by the exit sign flares into brilliant illumination, giving a crystal-clear view of the naked sprinting Cathy to cameras and audience alike, when her momentum has already made it impossible to change course. I don’t think she even realizes where she’s running; she just keeps going in furious embarrassment. We have, of course, herded her not toward the main doors but toward the inflatable pool. She’s still blissfully unaware of this and running full-tilt when her legs strike the balloon-like rim and she loses her footing.

Imagine this moment as it’s captured by the slow-mo camcorder concealed in NewBee’s stuffed head. The naked sweetheart, now fully airborne, blushing furiously, arms and legs pinwheeling, breasts sloshing every which way, wet hair spraying out in a corona around her like the most ambitious photographer’s glamour shot of a supermodel, descending gradually into the inevitable embrace of several hundred gallons of liquid chocolate. There is no chance of her sliding into a hard concrete wall — if she somehow overshoots the pool, she would be caught in the padded embrace of NewBee’s plushy rooster body. But she doesn’t; her trip gives her angular rotation and she ends up in a nearly vertical descent ending — doing a perfect bellyflop into the delicious chocolate.

It’s a tradition for NewBee to nail fans with chocolate cakes during Fighting Cock game pre-shows (and he’s picked cute girl-fans more than a few times for this undignified but entertaining treatment), so his placement here makes for a nice school spirit tie-in — serving as foreshadowing and drawing some extra engagement from the athletes and cheerleaders in the crowd.

Now, this is a very special inflatable pool. We cut out the normal plastic bottom and replaced in with the springy material used in a trampoline mat, coated with sealant and treated in other ways to keep the pool’s airtight nature. The momentum of Cathy’s faceplant stretches the trampoline downward, and a second later the trampoline floor springs back up — and in the process casts about fifty gallons of liquid chocolate into the air. This veritable tidal wave strikes dead on target — Karen, Charlene, Macy and R- get plastered from head to toe. (NewBee is also coated, and looks rather amusing coated with dripping chocolate, but I’m not even going to put on a pretense that anyone cares about that.)

The size of the splatter is not coincidental, by the way. Livia wasn’t kidding about being a prop magician, and she can be positively obsessive-compulsive about chasing her perfect cinematic moment. We no shit threw twelve weighted mannequins into various inflatable pools filled with various colloids commonly found in grocery stories. Just so you know — when we’re not being all glamourous and naughty on-stage, separating nubile college girls from their clothing, we’re busy being the evil mirror-universe Mr. Wizard — making messes and blowing things up for Science!

“My clothes!” Macy yelps. R- is quietly angry. Charlene and Karen, however, are staring at each other with mouths wide open in silent, awed laughter. Their faces are filled with delight, and I have no doubt they think this is one of the best nights of their life — though I’m not sure yet if they are gossip girls enjoying Cathy’s humiliation, comedy fans, lovers of schadenfreude, aroused by our erotic stunt or just party girls that love it whenever something “totally outrageous” happens. It could be all of the above.

Cathy has, by pure luck, landed in the best possible position for Livia’s well-engineered “cinematic moment”, with her knees and face plunged into the chocolate but her groin upthrust. As a result, every part of her body is fully covered with liquid chocolate — save for her upthrust ass, which is still perfectly clean, taut and firm, still glistening with water from the shower. She’s perfectly still, frozen.

“Oh my goodness,” Livia coos into her microphone. “I think we’ve had a little accident. I must say, Cathy, I did warn you to watch out for that pool when you first came on stage.”

Her tone is deliciously condescending — Livia truly understands comedic timing, foreshadowing and the psychology of fetish humiliation, and applies all those skills well.

Livia and I saunter over to the pool as the crowd hoots. “We did warm the chocolate, so I hope it’s not too chilly. Brrr.”

As soon as she says the magic word, Cathy thrashes and squirms in the chocolate. Her body looks fantastic coated with the glossy fluid; her breasts slosh about as she stretches and writhes.

“Livia!” I say in a mock-outraged tone. “how can you take advantage of this helpless coed with your insidious triggers at a time like this? Really, don’t you think we’ve taken this far enough? That was a pretty cold thing to do. You’re a cold woman, Lascivious Livia.”

I give the audience a few seconds to build up anticipation before I drop the obvious punchline. “Brrr. Brrrrrr.”

I try to keep up the demeanor of a showman, trade glances with the crowd, make the gestures... but it’s hard. Cathy squirming and writhing in the chocolate pool is pressing my buttons in a big way and I find it overwhelmingly tempting to just ogle her with open and unabashed lust. Writhing is another very erotic thing women don’t do often enough in most porn, and Cathy does it in a very appealing manner. But we can’t keep up the gag too long, or we’ll lose whatever tiny veneer we have left of this being ‘comedy’ and people will think of us as a live sex show. Livia wants to cross that line eventually — but not just yet.

Once she catches her breath, Cathy rolls over in the chocolate pool, sliding herself defensively into a corner and covering her breasts with one arm while using the other to wipe chocolate from her face. I meet her gaze, wondering how pissed she’ll be. She’s furious, but it’s very much a horny, “slap slap kiss” fury rather than traumatic anger. She looks vulnerable, but also like she’s savoring the feeling of her own vulnerability. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Macy ogling Cathy’s naked body — her eyes wide with delight and lust. Livia and I both extend hands to help Cathy out of the pool, but she reaches solely for me.

Now, I stand on one foot, superficially reaching out into the center of the pool while trying not to actually step into it — and thus putting myself slightly off-balance. I’m quite intentionally giving Cathy an opportunity, and I’m very happy when she takes it. She looks up at me with doe eyes, reaches out and clasps my hand — but instead of standing up, she arches back, intentionally pulling me into the chocolate. What happens next is a bit of a blur. I do remember my face being about an inch from her navel. I remember her delightful, girlish laugh. “Hah. This time, I got you!”

I remember her squirming back a bit with her legs still spread, and for a brief instant my face being within an inch of her widespread legs. Then she’s on top of me, her naked body pressing against my suit. Even through the fabric I can feel her hard nipples press against my chest. She holds me down and I don’t resist. It only lasts a few moments before she covers herself with her hands again, tries to stand up, slips back down on the bouncy floor and stands up a second time, stepping out of the pool. She’s covering her bits, but doesn’t otherwise seem especially defensive. Beside the pool, the four club girls are outrageously amused at my being pulled in, and very entertained by how lewd the brief grapples between us were — I can hear their awed laughter.

I wipe off my face, and Livia helps me up with two hands. She stands with good bracing so I can’t pull her in (and don’t try; it wouldn’t have good comedic timing the way Cathy’s pull had). She does get some of the chocolate all over her hands, though, which will be notable in a moment. Livia and I maneuver Cathy back toward the center of the stage. Livia then turns to Cathy and fixes her with an ingratiating, high-intensity smile.

“Now, possum, I’m wondering if you’d be willing to move your hands and flaunt it a bit. I know you’re protecting your modesty — but I think you have to agree, given present circumstances, that’s kind of like shutting the barn door after the horses have fled. So why not be a good sport and strike a bit of a pose? It would make me, Marcelo and all the lads in the audience very happy, and make you utterly unforgettable — etched into the archetypes of a fevered masculine sexual imagination for decades...”

Cathy acquiesces silently with almost no resistance. And it isn’t just exposing her breasts shyly, either; she puts her hands on her knee and bends down, arcing her face up and draws her chocolate-covered hair to one side of her head in a wave. She purses her lips and looks up at me with an intense, defiant and erotic stare. I can tell she’s still very aroused in spite of — or because of — everything we’ve done to her. Chocolate sauce runs off her body in thin streams. It clings to her like a second skin, highlighting and glamourizing her curves with its glistening flows.

Livia pulls open one of those cylindrical containers of Cool Whip, scoops most of it out in one big dollop and sets it on Cathy’s head, being careful that it doesn’t fall off. Then she conjures a plastic prop of a Maraschino cherry about the size of my fist and sets it atop the cream crown on Cathy’s head. “Okay, Mimi,” she says. “Light it up!”

In the shadows directly behind Cathy, our custom neon sign flares to life. It’s stylized as an advertisement for a fifties-style diner with elaborate flourishes: “Livia’s Diner” in stylized block letters, and beneath that “Our Featured Dish: Hot Coed Sundae”. Livia stands directly behind Cathy, puts her hands on those chocolate-covered shoulders and flashes her best saucy, suggestive grin.

Camera bulbs flash, and not only ours — though of course, we are the ones who knew what would go down and choreographed the whole thing, and thus get the best shot from a camera in the rafters. This specific shot will become one of the most successful promos for the Trips ever, though we don’t release it right away — and yes, Cathy will get some very decent compensation out of it, even though we technically have photography rights here.

I have to say, we do this girl real justice: her body is alluring, but she’s not a model. A normal, well-lit explicit photo-shoot would be quite punishing to her, either showing all the little flaws normal girls have or having to be air-brushed into complete falsity. But the chocolate covers all these trivial flaws while bestowing glamour, streamlining her body and curves. The pose highlights both her ample natural gifts and the raw erotic energy emanating from every pore of her being. For just one night, like a caterpillar transmuted in a sticky cocoon, Cathy gets to be a supermodel. It’s irreproducible — lightning in a bottle.

“Now,” Livia says, “open your mouth wide, look to the side and try to give your best shocked and scandalized expression.”

Cathy plays along. She puts one hand on her cheek, like a flirty half-version of the famous Macaulay Culkin pose. She has the comedic scandalized look down — it can’t take that much acting, given her current predicament — but mischief positively flashes from her eyes. She also positions her legs in a way that is... not chaste, but still believable as an accident.

We get two absolutely gorgeous promo posters out of this. They will, five years from now, end up on a lot of college boys’ dorm room walls. Fantastic camera and lighting-work from Mimi, too — the photos are crystal clear. Fittingly, the ‘scandalized’ one is itself especially scandalous. We will print two versions of it — the poster-size R-rated one with a topless shot that stops at the navel, and the limited-edition X-rated version, nine feet by three feet, full body pose, in which one can make out the shocked valedictorian’s engorged, chocolate-coated pussy lips quite strikingly clearly.

Cathy finally catches on to the gag and looks behind her, seeing the neon sign. For a second, she looks furious and humiliated — and then she just breaks down, chuckling softly at first, unable to avoid laughing at her ludicrous situation. Her body trembles softly, and the big glob of whipped cream Livia placed on her head slips down, running right over her face. She catches it with her arms, crushing it against her breasts and wiping it downward — changing her body from sleek black chocolate into mixed vertical stripes of chocolate and cream. She shivers sensually as her hands run down her body, and only laughs harder.

I’m really glad everyone’s staring at Cathy right now, or they’d likely notice the throbbing erection straining my pants.

Having got the shots, Livia reaches around Cathy and playfully flicks one of her rock-hard nipples with a fingertip. “Is it a bit cold in here or is it just you? Brrr.”

Cathy squirms out of Livia’s grip as the arousal wracks her body and runs over to hug me for protection. I see a faint flash of deep disappointment on Livia’s face before her stage persona covers it — and before the chocolate-covered pulchritude pressed against my body distracts me fully.

“You two need a shower,” Livia says. “Go get cleaned up.”

Cathy and I walk back to the shower. “Would you help me wash my back?” she whispers to me. My mike is at the bottom of a pool of chocolate at this point, so any further conversations with Cathy will be inaudible to the crowd.

“Only if I can also help you wash your front,” I reply playfully. She doesn’t affirm that, but she doesn’t deny it either.

I get into the shower stall with Cathy and we begin washing up, in this case actually washing. Getting the chocolate off exposes her blush again, which I enjoy. I’m surprised when some of the girls in the audience start chanting, “Take it off! Take it off!”

So I let Cathy strip me of my stage costume, piece by piece. I do in fact get to wash her back, and her breasts, and I even slide a hand between her legs a few times to give that most secret region a good scrubbing. I only go down to my boxers, though they do get wet and Cathy makes an aggressive point of washing me “there” with the hidden-camera shower-head. Mimi doesn’t focus on it as much as on Livia, but she gets the girls enough shots to make them cheer.

I would actually drop the boxers happily, but I know that would be crossing a line. If I did that, there would probably be sexual contact on stage between me and Cathy, and Livia has made it clear that is a no-no. Not out of any moral concern, but because the Sexy Scandal Spectacular is to have exactly twelve Escalations, and we need to have a new line to cross for every one of them to keep up the brand. This matters to Livia a great deal, so I keep it in my boxers even though I suspect we could easily start a full-on orgy on stage if we were willing.

Now I should tell you, O Observant Reader, that I’m not usually a stereotypical, competitive alpha male. I’m genuinely not jealous and usually fine with sharing my lovers. My study of pickup artistry may have started to compensate for my height, but it is motivated by a genuine hunger for the experience of sex, the sensual decadence of new and exotic experiences and conquests. I’m perfectly willing to bottom, or to be humiliated, if it advances me along the path to whatever hottie I happen to be fixated on at the time. I can even enjoy it, especially if it obviously arouses the girl in question.

But there is also a deep instinctive urge to compete somewhere within all men. Even if mine isn’t as strong as some, I still get an immense thrill from cupping and fondling the enormous wet breasts of the coveted valedictorian in front of all the assembled frat jocks, preppies, nerds and malcontents. I indulge this masculine ego less commonly than my libido, but that doesn’t mean it’s wholly withered and dead.

Cathy looks at me with her best wide-eyed ingenue look. “When you guys finish your show, would you be able to walk me home? After tonight, I’d feel safer that way.”

It’s obvious her concern is not entirely genuine, though in retrospect her request may have been practical as well as licentious. But I am horny and don’t see that in the moment. I give her a smirk in response and whisper back, “Cute. Very believable. But yes, don’t worry, you can stick with us when we leave and we’ll hook up afterward.”

This seems to please her, and she hugs me.

Meanwhile, across the stage, Livia is dealing with the four cuties who had looked so fashionable before their involuntary transformations into life-sized novelty confectioneries. I am obviously not following this bit closely, but I will see it on the raw footage for our tapes and I’ll also get some extra dirty details from Livia after the fact.

“Ladies, I really must apologize for the mess,” Livia says. “I can assure you that the Sexy Scandal Spectacular will be happy to reimburse you for the full value of any clothing that may have been damaged by our egregious misjudgment in planning this routine. We’d even be happy to procure exact replacements for you and have them shipped directly to you, no re-shopping needed.”

The girls giggle among themselves. Charlene wrings chocolate out of her hair, then licks it off her hand playfully. They whisper among themselves — only R- seems more surly. (We will later learn that R-is a distant social acquaintance of Cathy who respects her but knows nothing about her kinks, and is rather slow to pick up on social cues; as such she views us as cruel exploiters. The other three, conversely, are resentful of the campus’ more “respectable” girls who often look down on the club set and thus greatly enjoyed watching one get humiliated six feet from where they sit.)

They seem well-off, and also give the impression of enjoying drama and spectacle — not overly exercised about losing a change of clothes in exchange for a thrilling evening, and likely not upset about an excuse for yet another shopping trip. Livia maneuvers them out of their seats and toward the center of the stage. She gets each of them to list off the exact clothes they had been wearing, and the walking fashion plates seem to enjoy the opportunity to give a very specific inventory of their outfits, complete with brand names and color-matching notes. Livia notes this all in detail, and offers them Scandal Spectacular-branded towels to wipe up with.

Then, once the girls are in the spotlight at the center of the stage, she delivers the punchline. She grabs a large wicker basket from our prop stacks and sets it by the four young ladies. “Girls, if you’d be willing to place all the damaged clothing items in this basket, it will help us to locate exact replacements.”

The crowd suddenly figures out the game and cheers. R- gives Livia an absolutely acidic stare, snatches the towel from her and stalks off stage and out of the auditorium. Macy and Charlene trade an exaggeratedly weary, sarcastic “really?” look between them. Karen, however, is clearly the airhead of the quartet, and — given that everyone can see she isn’t wearing any underwear — likely also not averse to a bit of flaunting. Her upswept perm had given her a smart, avant-garde look (before being flattened by the wave of chocolate), but her behavior is pure bimbo. “Sure,” she says in a chipper voice, and starts pulling off her stained boots to drop in the basket.

“Ka-ren!” Charlene says in a long-suffering, chastising tone.

Macy has been glancing at Livia’s cleavage in her tight bustier at every opportunity. “Oh, take a chill pill,” she says. “It’s all in fun.”

Karen, finished with her boots, slips the straps of her pastel aerobic bodysuit down and slides it off with remarkable speed — going from fully dressed to full-frontal in the blink of an eye. The crowd cheers, and she revels, posing with her hands on her hips and a wide grin. She’s thin, and has perfect C-cups with upswept nipples and a nice platinum blonde landing strip. And she’s proud of her body, and not even slightly reluctant to show it off.

Charlene glances between the vacuously grinning, exultant leggy blonde and her stalwart black friend who has already doffed her tube top in the hopes of getting Livia’s attention. Macy now has a perfectly clean strip of exposed skin on her otherwise chocolate-plastered torso, which holds her firm C-cups packed into a lacy red bra. “You know, you two are just absolutely terrible influences on me,” Charlene says.

“You love being talked into things,” Macy shoots back. “You hang with us because we make your life fun. Now, show us all some skin! You’re falling behind!”

Charlene turns to Livia. “Can we at least get some sexy stripper music like you did for Cathy?”

A few seconds later, the rather vulgar beat of Bloodhound Gang’s The Bad Touch starts blaring through the auditorium. Mimi chose the song, of course, and it isn’t as classy as the trio expected — but it sure is funny. The girls tolerate it, and soon embrace it — as long as it doesn’t piss them off enough to derail things, it’s a great song for getting some really rude dance moves out of girls.

Charlene may be flat, but she’s extremely cute, and she has wonderful dance moves. Her long, straight, silky black hair flies around her as she dances, and she swings the chocolate-covered black dress over her head like a stripper before tossing it in the basket — also using it to playfully splatter Livia. Charlene is now topless, and wearing a pair of thin, grey silk panties. Macy strips off her splattered jeans and tights, leaving her in a red bra and a sheer, somewhat exposing pair of red panties. She seems to be doing a personal strip for Livia, and grabs the microphone from Livia. Mimi lowers the song volume so she can speak. “I’m wondering if you think we have any stains on our panties. I can’t quite tell.”

“Macy!”, Charlene hisses, but Macy just winks back at her.

Now, the obvious lead-in is for Livia to say yes, or something similar, to coax the girls to take them off. But she’s called Lascivious Livia for a reason, and she’s more creative than that. She gestures for both girls to stand beside each other and bend over slightly — the audience gets a good look at Macy’s cleavage. Both have very firm, full asses, and the position flatters them. Livia gets down on her hands and knees, making a very theatrical show of examining both girls’ panties. Then, with an almost violent suddenness, she sticks out her two chocolate-covered hands (from having helped me out of the pool) and gives both girls a firm goosing at the same time from behind. They both yelp appealingly, though Macy’s is decidedly more sexual than Charlene’s.

“You know,” Livia says, totally deadpan, “it’s hard to see clearly but I think there might be a faint mark on both panties. It looks a bit like a handprint. You might want to have us replace them, just to be safe.”

The crowd’s cheer shakes the rafters. Livia sure knows how to work frat boys. Even the club cuties find it hard to stay angry at being groped — the gag was pretty funny, after all, and Livia’s faux-innocent smile is ingratiating. Mimi restarts the song from the beginning, and the two chocolate-besplattered girls give a spectacular tease-dance as they slither out of their panties. In the shower, Cathy clutches me and rubs her body against mine even as she watches Livia tease the club trio.

Karen reaches out to Macy, beckoning her. The two girls put their arms around each other. Macy daubs a bit of chocolate onto Karen’s nose playfully. The two girls then grind their bodies against each other, smearing chocolate everywhere. Like I said, that song is amazing for getting girls to give up their really rude dance moves — and some really silly ones, too. As it nears its climax, Macy takes Karen’s head in her hands and they start making out. The crowd goes wild — girls making out at parties isn’t yet as much of a “thing” as it will become a few years from now.

“You know,” Charlene says to Livia, “for being the instigator of this whole chocolate atrocity, I think you’ve stayed way too clean.”

Charlene shoves Livia toward Karen and Macy, who separate and embrace her. She doesn’t resist. The two girls proceed to give her what I can only describe as a very grindy, very messy vertical lap dance, with Macy in the front and Karen in the back. The knot of chocolate-covered girls gradually makes its way toward the shower. It looks like the show is going to end with me and five girls in a shower — which is honestly a pretty good ending, but I only care about Cathy at this point. Mimi loops the song, and eventually there are six people in the shower booth.

Macy grinds aggressively against Livia, who seems to return her passion. Karen just dances like a showoff, occasionally grinding against Macy and Livia, and also occasionally turning to grope or tease Cathy. For her part, Cathy clings to me tightly — I know she’s straight at this point, and she’s probably a bit weirded out by other girls touching her, but my primitive animal backbrain is enjoying her damsel in distress poise a bit too much, and I maybe am not as protective of her as I should be. I suspect Charlene is also straight, as she competes with Cathy to grope and touch me. This makes Cathy get a lot sultrier quickly, and she starts to dance to even the ruder music in a very vampy way, clearly determined to keep my interest and hook up with me tonight. (There’s no doubt I’ll be up for it, but she might not know that yet.)

One of our hired stagehands clears the Newton’s Cradle, the clothing basket and the custom neon sign out as we dance. When the song finally finishes, there are six wet, very horny and moderately clean people in the shower booth. I pass out white silk bathrobes embroidered with our logo and encourage everyone to put them on — Livia is the only one to make it through the show in remotely decent attire for going outside. She seizes the microphone. “Ladies and... man-children, I hope you’ve all enjoyed watching the Sexy Scandal Spectacular tonight as much as we’ve enjoyed presenting it. The Virgo Escalation is now complete! Love is the law, love under will!”

Navy and orange smoke floods out from under the shower booth. Karen yelps and almost slips, but Charlene and I grab her. We, the six of us, along with the shower, vanish.

In case it isn’t obvious, vanishing at the end of an Escalation is an ironclad rule for Livia, part of our glamourous trade dress. I’m not going to discuss the exact mechanics of the vanishing act. This one isn’t all that impressive, but some of the later ones are. Suffice it to say that within fifteen minutes, the four girls are bundled into the Beast and we’re all off-campus, leaving the student body to find their own methods of releasing all the sexual tension we’ve built up.

Campus folklore about the night, and its legendary hookups, persist to this very day. None of the stories involve Cathy, though. Everyone knows who she left with.

Back at the beast, we’ve got Cathy in a small spare room, and Livia leads the other three girls to her hookup crib.

“I just talked with the star of the evening backstage,” Livia tells me and Mimi. “She asked about Marc immediately. I’m heartbroken to tell you she has a tragic and incurable case of straightness. She is, however, horny as all fuck.”

Mimi looks crestfallen, but believes her immediately. “This means,” Livia continues, “that the honors must fall to you, Marcelo. We do have a certain reputation to maintain, after all, in terms of being a show that tempts women to live out their fantasies. We have to actually do that, not just dance around it.”

I grin. I can see what’s coming, but I want to let Livia actually say it. She saunters over to me playfully and starts to whisper in my ear. “What I’m saying to you as your boss is that, congruent with your obligations as an employee of the Sexy Scandal Spectacular, you now have an established professional responsibility to stuff our stacked young valedictorian like she’s a peculiarly centerfold-shaped Christmas turkey. Are you comfortable doing that for the good reputation of the Spectacular?”

“God, I love it when you talk like that.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. Better hurry before she decides to jill off and you lose the sexual tension. Where should we drop you two?”

“On ninth,” I say, “by that cheap love motel.”

“Oh, that’s just poetic,” Livia agrees. “I think Charlene is straight. You’re not interested?”

“I... really doubt that’s Cathy’s fantasy.”

“Yeah, point. We’ll drive Charlene home, and then I hope to score some foursome action, mocha and ivory style. Karen promised her pop she would never get naked alone with another girl again. I pointed out to her that if there was more than one girl with her, she wouldn’t be breaking that prohibition. I think she liked my logic. If Macy and Karen aren’t up for it, Mimi and I will no doubt share an intimate evening someplace public and likely to cause trouble. Regardless, we’ll pick you up at the love motel tomorrow afternoon.

“Oh, and that thing about gentlemen not kissing and telling? It better not apply to you and me. When you get back, I’m going to want a detailed report on your conquest, and it better be explicit. And by explicit, I mean adjectives. Like, Harlequin grade adjectives. You can whisper it in my ear while I lay in bed tomorrow. For now, though... good luck, have fun and do the Sexy Scandal Spectacular proud.”

So it’s around 1 AM when Cathy and I are unceremoniously ejected from the Great Beast on Ninth Street, and find our way into a cheap motel wearing only silk bathrobes. I pay for the room. Cathy says nothing, but smolders and gives me bedroom eyes the whole way. In the elevator, she unties her robe slightly, letting it open down the middle to flash fluffy, strawberry blonde bush as we walk the corridors to find room 307. We get in and lock the door.

“First,” Cathy Delapointe says to me, “I need a shower. Myself. A real shower, not a sexy shower. I have chocolate stuck in places that will make the evening less fun if I don’t fix it.”

So she goes and locks herself in the shower. While she cleans up, I take her clothes out of the plastic bag we had them in and hang them over the furniture to let them dry — they’re still wet from the booth shower. I also take off the feminine bathrobe.

Fifteen minutes later, the Forbidden Fruit of the Big Noodle steps out of the bathroom. She looks absolutely ravishing, with the thin silk bathrobe barely concealing her curves. Her hair is unkempt from multiple showers, and the tangles only make her sexier. Her skin is moist and seems positively radiant. She is blushing — I doubt she is a virgin, but I also doubt she has been this forward, overt and simply raw with a man before. Lust rolls off of her in waves.

I walk around closing the drapes and dimming the lights in what I hope is a smoldering, seductive manner. Wordlessly, she traces my steps, turning the lights back on and opening the drapes to a quite brazen degree. Then she plays with the sash on her bathrobe, and it again falls open down the middle to exactly the same tantalizing degree it was earlier. “You had me put on such a lurid show, Mister Knight. I hope you weren’t expecting candle-lit intimacy now.”

This lady is simply amazing. “Are you sure you want to play, Cathy?”

She leans over to me and whispers in my ear. “If I wanted Mister Sensitive, do you think I would be here right now?”

In response, I stick my hand between her legs and grab forcefully. She yelps in surprise in a most delightful way, shocked but not afraid or offended. My hand gets wet from more than just shower-dew. “Is that how you normally touch a women?” Cathy asks mock-archly.

It actually isn’t. I’m only rough if I’m pretty sure the lady will like rough. But I’ve also done an extensive review of our lovely peach’s dating history, so I know the archetype she’s looking for and he doesn’t go slow and soft. “Nah,” I throw back. “I was just testing the waters. It’s normally more like this.” And I give her one finger right in front of the window.

She’s marvelously tight, and as wet as she is it slides in all but instantly. She squirms and clenches around me, and her pleasure runs down my hand in droplets. “It’s nicer when you wiggle a bit, isn’t it?”

“It’s not your finger I really want, Mister Knight.”

Nobody calls me Mister Knight. I’m not sure where she heard that. If I were to say, “Call me Marc,” I’m sure she’d do so and drop it. But that would make this less kinky for both of us, so I don’t bring it up.

Cathy walks over to her purse and unzips something, presumably something quite concealed, inside it. When she turns back to me, she has a naughty smile on her face, and a condom still in its wrapper pressed between her pert lips. She kneels down before me, and pulls down my boxers. I’m hard; I got hard the second I grabbed her pussy and got my hand all wet. She seems both pleased and slightly intimidated.

She tears open the condom and puts it in her mouth. I know exactly what she’s trying to do — it’s that trick I’ve had prostitutes do on me, where the lady puts the condom on the guy using just her mouth. But she’s never done it before, and she fucks it up. I just let her keep trying, because she’s got her mouth on my cock and is blushing furiously and I’m enjoying both of these things a lot. She runs back to her purse and comes back with a whole strip of condoms. Second try goes exactly as well as the first, and I still enjoy it greatly. “Maybe,” I suggest, “you should get it wet first.”

It’s not helpful advice for getting a condom on, and I don’t know if I played her or she’s playing along. But she licks my shaft from every angle, and swallows it, and the whole time has an innocent and helpful expression on her face. Finally she asks, “Do you think it’s good now?”

“Yup,” I tell her. Then I snatch the condom from her, wipe off my cock and put in on myself.

“You’re a dick,” she tells me dryly.

“Thanks,” I reply with a grin. “I work hard at it. It turns you on, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” she admits. “It does.”

“I know exactly how to handle girls like you,” I tell her.

“I’m actually very sexually experienced,” she explains. “Just... more with the chase, the back and forth, than the actual deed.”

There’s a side table to the left of the hotel window. It’s about six feet long, and its top is just under waist height for me. It has a sturdy metal stand, and it’s not affixed to the floor. Perfect. I grab it and drag it so it’s directly in front of the main window that Cathy daringly opened the curtains of.

I walk over to Cathy. Her silk robe is still hanging tantalizingly open. I give her a cool lecherous stare and use some Eyefucking to put lurid images in her mind as I nudge the robe fully open with my fingertips, exposing her large breasts. Then I tug it forcefully down and it crumples at her feet. She gives a little “yeep” as I jostle her, but seems pleased. That’s as close to literal bodice-ripping as we’re going to get, but it seems to set the tone well for her. She has her eyes closed again, like she’s imagining, visualizing or fantasizing. I can’t imagine doing that. Guys are so visual. Her body is amazing to look at, but I’ve never had a partner I didn’t want to watch closely as I fucked them. But I think her sexual triggers are more in the realm of context and sensation, and closing her eyes is perhaps a simple technique for creating a feeling of helplessness in herself.

I really yearn to kneel down and motorboat her magnificent breasts. I want to feel those dangling mounds of warm flesh enfold my face. That’s not especially in-character with the dominant, aloof persona I’ve adopted to try and match her desires, however, so I push the impulse aside. I will do something with her nipples later, though. I need to.

I lean down and scoop Cathy up in a bridal carry. She’s surprised, but she doesn’t make any sound this time. I carry her over to the table and set her down on it on her back, so anyone looking in the open window sees her horizontal profile and her magnificent rack. I’m not especially intimidated by the window. The streets were fairly deserted, it’s a love motel and we’re on the third floor. More to the point, I’m with a stage show and understand lighting. The bright lights in the room are behind us. If anyone does look in, they’ll see backlit shadow figures. It will still be a pretty titillating eyeful, but not personally compromising. But Cathy doesn’t know that, and I don’t tell her, and I suspect her not realizing it will make the encounter even hotter for her. I slide her forward a bit on the table, so her groin overhangs the edge ever so slightly. Perfect.

“Spread your legs,” I command, and she does so. What an amazing view. Her pussy looks as worked up as it did earlier tonight, when everyone got a close look at it via overhead projector. I rub the tip of my cock up and down her lips. “You’re very tight,” I say. “This might hurt a bit when it first goes in.”

“Am I supposed to say, ‘be gentle’?” she whispers. Her voice is trembling. “Because... the truth is, I don’t really want you to do that.”

Hot. Just, god damn. I shift the tip around, teasing her. She’s gasping, and her thighs are trembling. Is she near orgasm already? I guess it would make sense she’d be in the same place I was after the Taurus Escalation, given how mercilessly and repeatedly the Trips pushed her fetish buttons tonight.

She really surprises me just then, pulling what I can only call a pro sex move in sharp contrast with her condom debacle a few minutes ago. She wraps both her legs around my waist, locking them behind my ass and clenching them together, pulling me toward her and driving my cock all the way into her pussy with tremendous force, creating a slapping sound as substantial as a hard spanking — and then proceeds to grind on me vigorously.

And it’s incredible. She’s so tight around me, the sensation is all-consuming. It is one of the stand-out, memorable moments of raw pleasure in the whole of my quite substantial sexual history. I could come right then and there. I want to, but I don’t. I don’t think of baseball or dogs pooping or whatever; I have better methods — breathing exercises, position shifts and some tantric blood circulation tricks that look vaguely like odd stretches.

Regardless, I don’t come — but I know she’s about to. I can feel her thighs, pressed against mine, trembling and her pussy clenching. I feel something wet — either a slight squirt or some all-natural female lube — run down my thigh and enjoy the teasing sensation.

She doesn’t moan or scream, which makes sense for someone who has successfully kept so many kinks hidden beneath a respectable public façade for so long — but watching her facial expressions as she’s drowning in ecstasy is very appealing to me. She gasps, and her eyes roll, and she does a whole body squirm. I wait until I think she is finished, moving my cock gently about an inch back and forth after she stops the vigorous grinding.

“Are we done?” I ask quietly. I’m not sarcastic or shaming her; that would be pretty hypocritical after the Taurus show, and I wouldn’t do it anyway — no matter how much this girl turns me on when she blushes and gets embarrassed.

“Keep going,” she says. “That was like my fifth tonight.”

Fifth? I adjust my mental image of Cathy — I think she’s a girl that doesn’t have much actual experience with sex, but she also has an incredibly active fantasy life, and clearly has spent a lot of time getting comfortable with the nuances and limits of her own body. That makes her more satisfying than any real innocent virgin ever could be, while still pressing men’s ‘virgin buttons’ in the pervy sense.

(Pro tip from the “Lord of Seduction,” guys: sex with genuinely innocent virgins isn’t really all that male fantasies make it out to be. It’s awkward, the girl is often scared, there’s pain involved and maybe even blood, and any eroticism is dispelled by the other conflicting emotions. I’ve done it once or twice, and don’t really want to repeat the experience. In my eyes, a girl’s first sexual partner should always be a good dildo, and she should get to know it and understand it before moving on to a man or woman. That way her first experience with real sex can actually be hot instead of nightmarish, and the world ends up with a lot more female libertines as a result — and that, I think we can all agree, is a victory for everyone.)

Cathy sees the look on my face. “I liked the show you put on tonight. I enjoyed it a lot.”

I want to ask her what specifically set her off, and get details, but I know she’ll never provide them. My relationship with Cathy is not going to be grounded in deep conversation — at least, not until much, much later. Stranger in the night, and all.

Now, while I’ve had a fair amount of sex since the Taurus show, I do realize that was the last encounter I described in this memoir in any great depth. So I do feel the need to redeem myself somewhat in your collective eyes, O Contemptuous Readers. And with Cathy, I may say that I do magnificently. It is, in total, an hour and seventeen minutes between Cathy’s fifth and sixth orgasms.

In and out. In and out. There’s less intensity now, and I’m managing my own arousal for pacing. Once it’s controlled, I pick up the momentum and start slamming her more aggressively. This is still only the beginning, of course. I reach forward and tweak her hard nipples with my fingers. I enjoy touching her nipples a lot, but she isn’t overly responsive to it. After a bit she places her hands over my own and crushes them more forcefully into her breasts, so that I’m squeezing and clawing them roughly, in a way that really has to hurt — and also feel pretty stimulating for her. It’s great for me, too — it lets me feel them the way I’ve been longing to since I first saw her.

You know, I remember saying in Chapter One that the Trips weren’t about “tab A, slot B”, and wouldn’t be well served by that kind of writing. I may have to revise that slightly. The truth is, tab A and slot B can actually be pretty appealing, especially when slot B is attached to a pulchritudinous, faux-innocent valedictorian who gasps and makes the cutest little squeaking sound whenever tab A thrusts into it. Well, at least until the rhythm really starts to pick up and all she can do is fall back on her yoga breathing exercises as her tight, slick little slot B gets slammed by my tab A like it’s a goddamn jackhammer.

After the breasts, the third stage of stimulation is her clit. Normally I gently rub my partner’s clit back and forth with my thumb when I want to move up the sexual pacing. With Cathy, though, I instead slap her clit hard with the flat of my hand. She just loves that. Better still, I don’t do it at any regular intervals — just at random times, with slaps between five seconds and a full minute apart. She never knows when to expect it, which makes it all the more exciting for her. I start slamming her more roughly and rapidly as I get her near to what’s apparently her sixth climax of the night.

Smack! Smack! Smack! The impact-sounds of skin slamming skin reminds me of the sounds of spanking. The more rapid hammering is making her enormous natural jugs fly every which way, and I find the sight incredibly arousing. I imagine what people would see if they happened to look in the window — the backlit outline of her wildly flapping and gyrating jugs and the clear motion of my pounding her must make for one hell of a silhouette. Eventually, she cradles her breasts with her arms just to prevent the flapping — which gathers them together, only making them look more enticingly plump and globe-like.

Her body is utterly slick with sweat by this point and it makes her look all the more erotic, like an especially wild amateur porn star doused in baby oil. She’s also sliding around on the table, though, to the point that our current position can’t go on much longer — but I don’t need for it to.

I get her exactly as close as I want her, then slide my hands under her sweat-soaked back and lift her off the table. My cock never leaves her pussy in so doing. I swing around immediately and walk over to the bed so she is over it — her body is really slick with sweat, and on the off chance I should fumble and drop her I want it to be onto something soft, not the ratty floor of a love motel.

I pull her up, so we are face to face; I’m standing and her legs are in the air. I tell her to wrap her arms tightly around my neck and hold on really tight. I feel her hard nipples dig into my chest as her torso crushes against mine. Her sweat-soaked, tangled strawberry hair looks glorious — the perfect visual metaphor for the transformation of the pristine and refined young coed into a lust-crazed, animalistic fuck machine.

Once she has a firm enough grip on me to sustain her airborne position, I slide one hand down to her left knee and hold her with the other under her ass. This gives me the leverage to slide her body back and forth, and I use it to start slamming her vigorously again. I can’t keep this up long, but I know I won’t need to — she’s right on the edge.

I sweep wet hair out of her face and lean close to whisper into her left ear as I slam her. “I bet you know what I’m going to say to you next, right?”

She doesn’t reply. She’s insensate with lust. I think she hears my question, but has no idea what I’m talking about. She’s forgotten, of course. I wanted her to forget until the most perfect possible moment. I want to drop it on her like an especially sexy ton of bricks. I feel her vagina clench. Dear God, she’s tight at any time but when she clenches my pleasure goes out of this world.

And the right moment arrives. I put my face very close to her ear, so she can feel my breath, and I take a very deep breath, so I can keep it up as long as possible.

“Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr...”

I think Livia will appreciate that. I know Liv really wanted to fuck Cathy, and in a weird indirect way that the straightest of straight girls wouldn’t object to, she now somewhat is — at least, her hypnotic trigger is driving Cathy toward an absolutely insane, unnaturally intense and prolonged orgasm.

Cathy clenches instantly. Her whole body goes rigid. Her eyes roll up in her head. I’m not pumping her any more, just holding her and making sure she doesn’t slip away and fall. She’s gasping and grinding her body vigorously against my cock. She hugs me so aggressively that a tiny, rational part of my mind is afraid she’ll crack one of my ribs. By my measure, her sixth orgasm lasts one minute and twenty-seven seconds. She probably thinks I’m done after about forty-five seconds, but I just take a second deep breath and keep on buzzing in her ear.

The unnaturally prolonged orgasm finally comes to an end when her slick, writhing body starts to slip out of my hands. Instead of letting her fall alone, though, I lean into it and fall to the bed with her, landing on top of of her. There’s more momentum than I expected in the fall, though. I hear a crunch as we crack the wood frame of the bed. My shoulder devil cackles. We did it! We broke a bed fucking, just like in the movies! Cross that one off the bucket list!

The momentum of the fall drives my cock really deep and really hard into her feminine depths, and she gives a final gasp and shiver of delight. She’s totally spent, all but unconscious from ecstasy.

But I feel another kind of pop, a very bad kind, and I realize I have to pull out immediately — which upsets me, as I’m also right on the edge. I planned to come right after her. None the less, I pull out as quickly as I possible can and confirm my suspicion — the “fall onto the bed for forceful penetration” stunt popped my condom, and it now hangs around my shaft like a ring, the front tip open and exposed. I’m going to come any second now.

I’m still standing between her legs at this point. There isn’t time to move. I explode, shooting a huge load onto her belly.

She props herself up and stares at it in lust-clouded confusion. “I thought you were...” she says, but trails off, unable to finish composing her sentence.

I’m not done, though. Another load surges out of my Lesser Vesuvius, flies the full length across her torso and strikes her in the face. She yelps in surprise. A long white rope sticks to her nose, and another joins it a second later on her flushed left cheek. It wasn’t intentional, but it’s still goddamn hot. I take a second to simply appreciate the visual — the heart-shaped face of the unattainable Forbidden Fruit of the Big Noodle, now fucked into an insensible daze, soaked with sweat and glazed with my seed. I don’t ponder this long, however. With the adrenaline and raw lust fading, I suddenly feel dizzy and quickly collapse on the bed beside her. She just turns around awkwardly and rubs her face in the bedspread to wipe away my seed.

After two minutes, though, I feel compelled to speak. “Cathy, the condom burst. It was when we fell on the bed. You should get up and wash yourself as soon as possible, thoroughly.”

“Purse,” she slurs awkwardly. “Inna purse.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There’s a little, a thingy, in the purse. Hidden pouch with a zipper, where the condoms were. Little blue tube. I can’t move. I literally can’t move. Get me that tube. If you need to tear the lining out of the purse to get it, that’s fine. It’s, it’s goo. Um. Words. I can’t find the words.”

I know what she’s talking about. I stumble over to the purse, managing to not lose my balance. I don’t have to tear it apart to find the tube.

“Sporemocidal,” she says. “Ammi-bangerial. Er, antibacterial. Spermicidal. Those are. Um. What the goo in the tube is.”

She doesn’t have to explain. I take a generous dollop and rub it on my hands, then penetrate Cathy with my fingers once more — this time gently and non-sexually, being careful and thorough to rub the gel wherever I can. I also pull off the condom-remnant and rub it on my own cock for good measure. Then I collapse by the bed, lay there a bit and finally get up, shut the damn drapes and lay down beside her.

“I think we’re pretty safe,” I say.

“I don’t care,” she finally says. “If I get some horrible STD and die tomorrow, tonight was still totally worth it. I have wanted something like... like this whole weird night... literally for years.”

We just lay there again for a while. Finally, she gets up to take a shower, and it lasts longer this time. I go in and watch her. I say I’m just being pervy, but I really just want to make sure she doesn’t slip and fall. I take a brief one after her.

“I’m... processing,” she finally says. “I still can’t believe this actually happened in real life. It’s surreal.”

More silence. We lie down and cuddle. At least, she lets me cuddle her without protest. It’s not really a Cathy thing, but I appreciate it.

“Marc? I need to ask you something.”

“What happened to Mister Knight?” I ask playfully.

“That was just for the sexy parts.”

“Okay.”

“I would appreciate it if you not mention anything that happened tonight after we left the Noodle campus.”

“Um. People with the show might want gossip. They have a fairly good idea what was going to happen, having dropped us off together by this motel. That was premeditated, by the way. I am a player, you know that.”

“I don’t care about that. I mean in public, or around the university.”

“Gentlemen don’t kiss and tell,” I assure her. “That’s a part of my brand and career. Are you going to tell people you blew me off?”

“No,” she says slowly. “I’ll imply all kinds of saucy things happened, but give subtly contradictory details every time I tell the story, so people eventually conclude I’m just bullshitting.”

“Oh, you’re good.”

“Maybe. I don’t know yet. I could just own it, too. I haven’t decided. I’m going to have some fallout to manage in my personal life from the show anyway.”

“Do you need —”

“No. I am probably better at managing social dynamics than you expect. I saw something I deeply wanted and decided to go for it. I understood the likely consequences when I put up my hand. I didn’t expect it to go as far, or become as explicit as it did — but I enjoyed it a lot and I’m not casting blame about.”

“You should,” I say. “You can totally blame us. It’s actually one of the things that the Spectacular was designed for, and good for our brand image. We get women to expose themselves and do obscene things. We give them a choice, but we often obscure that from the spectators. That way, the women can blame us after the fact. We have defenses against that, and as long as it’s not legal accusations we’re well set up to weather it and own the blame. It’s part of the brand. We ‘manufacture excuses’, as Livia says.”

“That’s... actually really clever. Your career sounds pretty fun.”

“It is, believe me.”

“I don’t want a scapegoat, though. I saw something I really wanted and I made a conscious decision to have it. And it was really, really good. All of it. I’m going to figure out how to reconfigure my life so it can deal with that, because the truth is this likely won’t be the last time in my life I do something like... whatever tonight actually was.”

“Ok. Still, call us if you need help. We’ll do what we can.”

She flashes me a sly smile. “I’m not actually a damsel in distress, you know. I just enjoy playing one sometimes. A lot, I’ll admit.”

A bit of silence.

“You’re going away soon, aren’t you?”

“We’re probably gone tomorrow, actually. Livia likes to vacate an area after one of the big shows. It’s supposed to be part of the mystique.”

“That’s... actually romantic, in a melancholy way. I like it. No loose ends, just kinky fun and on to the next city.”

This isn’t actually the last time I’ll see Cathy, but it sure feels like a decisive parting right now.

We may have talked more after that, but I don’t remember it. I am by this point extremely tired. I fall asleep soon after, and sleep like a rock. I only wake up when Mimi asks the concierge to wake me. Cathy, her clothes and all her possessions are gone. She cleared out before I awoke. The only trace she left is a very brief note:

“No regrets. — C”

I barely have time to shave and put on my ridiculous Trips bathrobe before Livia and Mimi bundle me into the Great Beast. An hour later, we are on the open road, and an hour after that we cross the Delaware state border heading south.