The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The lights were on in the apartment, Jodie was home. Not a great sign. Mark had parked the car on the street ten minutes ago. He rested his head against the steering wheel and felt lonesome, preferring to just stare at the home he’d made with Jodie. Evening had already purpled the apartment complex and pumpkin-orange lamps patched his vision to the front door. With the car off, silence croaked all around him.

We’ll keep your resume on file. On file, right. Along with all the other banana peels and paper trimmings. Mark didn’t feel the least bit angry, or disenfranchised, or bitter. Just. . . empty. Tapped out. After the interview Mark had hooked up with a few of his friends at one of the downtown bars where he got play like a great big phoney. How’d the interview go? Oh, great. You know, I don’t want to get my hopes up but I think this could be the one. They smiled, nodded, ordered more cheese-fries. Don’t have to worry about Mark anymore, says he’s doing great—and look at him! On his third beer already! A light turned off in the kitchen area.

Seventeen minutes now, the clock-radio marched on. With tremendous effort, Mark hauled himself out of the car and began his slow ponderous journey towards the front door. His neighbors were certainly awake. Sound bled through the walls, there was no privacy. It wasn’t a great neighborhood. Drug dealers on the left, illegal immigrants on the right, and an undercurrent of spurious unattached youth. No more crime than what was normally tolerated.

Their Latin neighbors were great people. Friendly, trustworthy people that would come over and pet-sit for Mark and Jodie whenever they went out of town. A middle aged catholic couple that made Mark feel initiated into a culture of adulthood more than college had. They were a people of routine and humility. The husband, Jose, was burly and olive, round with curly black hair. His wife Sofia was a plump woman built for day-long rides. She was a screamer and would holler late into the night, praising Jose over and over again in breathless Hispanic music. The drug dealers had their benefits too, but mostly kept to themselves. Which was fine.

It was a worknight, so the entire apartment complex shook like a carnival as husbands and wives joined again and again. Mark hung off his door handle, leaning back against his grip on the brass knob. Inside was Jodie, inside was the rest of life that he had left with this morning. There was no place else he wanted to be, but the door stayed closed. Stiff and immovable like a brick wall. Take a deep breath. You can do this. He pushed open the door.

“I’m home!” No one answered. Most of the lights were off but a blue-ish glow wrapped around the short hallway leading into the living room. On the couch Mark found Jodie. She looked up at him sadly, and mopped at her face with one hand. She was wearing her crisis Pjs and swaddled in a meter thick layer of blanket. The brown neck of a drained beer poked through one of the folds. On the television, a Project Runway rerun lit up the room. There was something Jodie found quite reassuring about gay men clothing women. Mark wasn’t a huge fan, but it was something they could judgmentally critique together.

“Hey.” She finally said and patted the pillow next to her weakly. For a moment Mark just stood there inbetween the door and the sofa looking down on her. Without her make-up, curled up and awash in the moonlight blue of the TV, Jodie was still quite pretty. Mark couldn’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be. Mark sat down next to her warmth and put his arms around her body, gently hugging her close to him. On screen, a contestant dished the dirt on the living habits of the other competitors in livid, incredulous detail.

“How’d it go?” Jodie was looking up at him, searching his face for an answer. Mark just eyed the horizon, somewhere far beyond the realm of man.

“I don’t know.” He knew.

“Not great.” Mark hated himself. Hated the apartment, hated leaving Jodie alone by herself wondering where he was all day. This wasn’t how today was supposed to go. He was supposed to boot down the door with his polished leather shoes and shout “HONEY, I’M HOME!” swinging his briefcase like a battle-axe. He’d scoop her up in one arm and drive her out of this shit-infested block into the suburbs with the great school system, nice big houses with real backyards, clean streets, and the only graffiti advertised music in the park. Jodie would smile at him and brag to all her married girlfriends about how well her man was doing—and they’d seethe in jealousy. Mark would phone up his parents and they would be so proud of him making it on his own. They’d stop nagging him about when he would settle down and stop this crazy unmarried tomfoolery and get serious about life. Now all he saw was them sighing and whispering disappointedly about how ‘there’s always next time’.

“How was your day? Did you tell Martin off?” Jodie retreated back into her cave of warm blankets.

“Yeah. . .”

“That you’ve been working yourself crazy on this project?

“Yeah. . .”

“Did you tell him about the promotion?”

“Yeah. . .”

“And how it should be yours?”

“Yeah. . .”

“Did it work?”

“. . . no.”

For a while after, Jodie and Mark sat together in silence. The air was crushing and the weight of the day seemed limitless. Neither had the energy to move so together they just held each other. Feeling the other’s heartbeat, the rhythmic rise and fall of their chest. Real human contact.

The television cut to commercial. A jarring sales voice blasted through the speakers. “Are you tired of rubbing yourself to orgasm?” A black and white scene of a bottomless naked woman fingering her pussy. Her legs splayed uncomfortably wide on the bed, daggering her slit viciously. “Worn out from sleepless nights of getting pounded silly by well-hung husbands and their sexy brothers?” From inside a circle of muscly men, a chubby lady pushed upwards on the chest of the man pounding into her from below. She was shaking her head and grabbing handfuls of chest hair, gasping in ragged orgasm. “Can’t get any work done because you’re stuck in line waiting for a ride on the biggest dick you can find?” A trail of gorgeous, big titted bitches tapped their toes anxiously and checked their watches waiting for the heavy set tigress riding a terrified young man to finish. Cum spattered all around her fleshy ass, and she hopped up and down on his trembling pole like an animal. “Or do you just want to see how hard you can really cum?” All the women turned and nodded hopefully, so grateful the disembodied voice might have a solution to their dire problems.

“If this is you, then you need Dan’s Discount Marital Aids!” One by one, a harsh cut placed sparkling dildos in each of the girl’s excited hands. One of them immediately inserted it into her mouth, taking the pink stiletto body seven inches down to its base. She looked confused but happy.

“NO, not like that you dumb slut, like. . .” But the girl on screen was having none of it. Once she found the vibrate button, she just moaned joyfully and savaged her pendulous tits – the pink base poking in and out of her lips like a Meerkat. “Well. . . I guess you could do that.” The pitch man looked lost, but quickly found his stride. “Dan’s Discount Martial Aids store on fifth and Van Nes has everything you could possibly want! We’ve got bullets, insertions, plugs, whips, handcuffs. . .” Leggy dumbos jabbed themselves with plastic wands, smiling with wide-open mouths. “Plus we’ve got plenty of top-quality juice catchers. Tired of getting pregnant every time a bunch of dudes nut inside you? We’ve got these stretchy balloon-ey things you can put on their cocks to make the cum go away.” He had to dodge out of the way of a squirter who looked vaguely familiar. . .

“Erma Dean! Local celebrity chef and host of the hit public access program Butter Cooking with Butter! I didn’t know you were a customer.” The salesman said with mock concern.

Erma Dean was legend among the homemakers. Her recipes were tasty, fast, and simple. Fry meat, add butter. Boil noodles, add butter. Pile of salt? Add butter. Sometimes she would use ‘home-made’ butter and wink at the camera. A whole generation was learning how to cook with creamy excretions and citric juices. The show had an army of male assistants and her spice cabinet had suspiciously sized holes where racks should be. One with a orange grime around it simply read: Spice Weasel. Mark hoped never to eat at Erma Dean’s house.

“Oh, I wouldn’t leave home without one of your wide selection of personal vibrators. Why, my den is a tangle of your home-installed sex machines.”

“HAHA! A young woman like yourself already using our sex swings, pistons, and other collectible erotic installations. Mercy, you certainly are a gas powered lady aren’t you? Well there you have it from one of our many satisfied customers. And remember, we’re always adding new products and looking for new spokespersons so cum in and check out our new stuff. Like our slogan says, you don’t have to cum down!”

It was a terrible slogan. I don’t have to come down? So I shouldn’t go to your shop? Even the name of the store was stupid. Dan’s Discount Marital Aids. How did they miss Dan’s Discount Dildos?It was idiotic. Erma tried to sing along with the slogan but only got as far as “You don’t have to cuuuum- you don’t have to cuuuuuum- oh god I’m cumming. I’m fucking cumming. You’re making me cum. Oh my god, keep going, keep fucking me. Oh my god.”

Somewhere along the line, crewmen had slipped in behind her. She was grabbing onto the pitchman’s arm with both hands to keep herself up as a shit-faced intern humped into her. The camera tilted awkwardly as the film-crew rushed to help fill her mouth with something. The embattled pitchman striking out for assistance as Erma clawed at him. The commercial cut to bubble letters with typed directions. Apparently someone had just copy-pasted a MapQuest route from their house. The next commercial was just hardcore pornography, it faded out to clip art of the word ‘Smiles’. Not really clear if it was advertising anything.

“What a load of—” Mark began but then he noticed something. Jodie was watching the TV with the same intensity their cat Bucket would give the birds in the yard. God he loved Jodie. She was a rambunctious lover but they both struggled with the idea of marriage. It was so dangerous. Affection could be so easily misinterpreted as an invitation to sexual bondage. It was the sixth date before they kissed. Mark was as titillated as everyone else by the constant erotic overtones that flooded everyday life, but he also found them overwhelming. It was a trait they shared. Mark didn’t know if he ever wanted to give up his reason for the always-on thrumming of sexual ecstasy that came with marriage. But looking at her now, Mark couldn’t imagine anyone else he would want to spend his life with.

“Jodie. . . I was thinking—”

“We should get married.” Jodie said, still staring at the screen. When she turned to face him, he was still too stunned to say anything.