The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I love Stacy, but she’s a ditz. I mean really. It never fails... we try to go out, have a good time, and something always goes wrong, and it’s always her fault. Sure I sound unfair, but like my dad used to say, you can’t fix ditzy. Well, he said you can’t fix stupid, but I can’t say that about Stace. She’s not stupid.

She just doesn’t think things through.

I mean, you should have seen us two years ago. We had this great idea about walking at least part of the Appalachian Trail. We planned it all out, and this time, I was sure that it would go okay since we probably wouldn’t see much of anyone out in the wilderness.

Problem was, on the drive there, we had to get gas. We pulled into this little no-name gas station in a no-name town, and stopped at one of those typical convenience store fill-up places. We walked in, and there was an average looking girl behind the counter and an old man near the door sitting in a cushioned chair. I guess he was a regular.

So the girl asked, “Can I help you?”

Stacy answered, “I need gas is all.”

Okay, okay, here’s where I have to stop. For some reason, people seem to take what she says the wrong way. Literally the wrong way. Like they take it literally way past what anyone normally would. Um, not like they’re insulted. Actually, they seem to fall over themselves trying to be helpful.

So the girl all of a sudden smiles and says, “I don’t like it myself, but we have a special on baked beans!”

Stacy, not upset ‘cause she was used to it, I guess, says, “No, I need gasoline.”

“Are you sure? I mean, that stuff will kill you!” said the girl, and she looked pretty upset.

Stacy did try to calm her down, I’ll give her that. “No, no, in my car. I need gasoline in my car.”

I broke into the conversation and said, “Stace, let’s just go to another station. And I’ll take care of paying and all that.”

She gave me kind of a sheepish look and sorta rolled her eyes and said, “Okay, Dee. But it’s not my fault. I don’t know why no one but you understands me.”

“Call it love,” I think I said. Something like that.

Well, we didn’t notice, but the old man had walked out. One second he was smiling and nodding along, and the next he was gone. We get back to the car, and the guy is pumping the gas, full force, right in through the driver’s side window, He’s got this big grin on his face as if he’s doing the nicest thing he’s ever done. He even tipped his hat when we walked up.

See what I mean? Literally the wrong way. It’s freaky. I didn’t get much of a trade-in on that car.

Anyway, that’s kind of how it goes with Stacy. Most of the time, anyway. If it’s not that way... you could just say they take it the wrong way, if there’s a wrong way to take it.

Sorry if it sounds like I’m bitching. Sometimes it gets a little hard to take, but I do love her. Can’t help it.

Oh, that reminds me of the worst time.

This was before I knew how things worked with her, exactly. A couple of things had been strange, but I hadn’t put it together then.

This was like eight years ago. Spring Break was coming up, and we decided to take off somewhere else than Daytona. I went there way too many times with my family growing up, and she didn’t care, either. So we headed up to Fleischer County.

It was a little artsy-craftsy place, and all of it really was going on in a little burg called Ashville. No, not the one in North Carolina. This place had to have maybe two, three thousand people and that’s if I’m generous. The rest of the county was pretty much nature preserve. Pretty cool place, even if the sidewalks did roll up at nine... at least our friends said so.

But the sidewalk thing turned out to be a problem. Not because it was early. Well, crap, it’s hard to explain, so I’ll go on and tell what happened. You’ll see.

The first night we got there, we went to this little pizza place. I don’t really remember the name—like Tony’s or Luigi’s or Vito’s... you know the kind. It was really low budget, with picnic tablecloths over old cafeteria square tables and a couple of booths with a long counter at the back. Had those shaker things with cheese and red pepper, and bad concertina music playing over these little Radio Gyp speakers.

The pizza wasn’t anything to write home about either, but it was the only place we could drink. And all there was to drink was beer.

Me, I prefer mixed drinks, but I was also used to drinking pretty much anything around. But Stacy, she wasn’t a drinker at all... well, not much. I used to laugh at how she could make a glass of wine last five hours. That night, you would have thought she was a 5′ 5″ beer barrel waiting to be filled up. She couldn’t get enough.

And when she asked for a pitcher or two on the house, once she explained she meant for free and not a “beer pitcher at the roof chucking contest,” well, we had two pitchers from every table in the place, and being the town it was, it was packed. That wasn’t all that bad, since there was no way we’d finish it, but I got drunk enough not to see how plastered she was getting.

Well, one guy came over. Couldn’t blame him—she was cute. He asked if he could sit with us, and she looked up and just said, “Go away.” He did.

But there was something going on. She looked pissed off at something. Great. A mean drunk. I never saw her that way before, but I also’d never seen her plowed. So to try and snap her out of it, I said, “Come on, Stacy, what’s up?”

“Just sit there, shut up, and drink your beer.”

Well, fuck her. But I couldn’t think of anything better to do, so that’s what I did.

Anyway, the guy came back over, but before he could say anything, she growled, “Look, I’m not interested. If you’re so horny, why don’t you just go over to the corner and jack off?”

No, no, really, he did. In front of God and everybody. Well, that little scene got the attention of the manager, and once he’d kicked Mr. Masturbator out, he walked over to us and said, “Ladies, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave, too.”

“We haven’t finished our beer,” spat Stacy.

“I think you’ve had enough, young lady, and this is not a beer joint,” he said. You could tell he was starting to get pissed, too.

“Go fuck yourself.” God, what was up with her? She’d never been like that.

Little did he know what was about to happen. Little did I, actually. But I think you can probably guess by now. There was this poor guy, pants down around his ankles hand on his rock hard dick (quite a nice one as I remember) trying to push it back between his legs so he could, well, fuck himself.

But that isn’t the worst of it. All the people in the place heard her. You could tell they were confused—hell, so was I, as my hand undid my pants, pushed my panties down, went to my pussy, which was incredibly wet, and I began to move my fingers in and out. It felt freaking great, too.

It wasn’t a pizzeria anymore... it was a smorgasbord of moaning mayhem, with the women having a great if humiliating time, and the men trying to figure out how exactly to accomplish her “request”.

Stacy just sat there in shock and then I think it suddenly hit her. She came around the table and whispered in my ear, “Stop that. We need to get out of here!”

Well, that sounded like a good idea, too. I dressed and we ran out, got in the car and screamed by the bed and breakfast we were staying at. Good thing the owner wasn’t there when we tried to check in. Life does have its miracles.

We pulled over about fifty miles out—still drunk. And it was my turn to be pissed. “What the fuck was that, Stacy?” I screamed. I was just starting to come out of the fog I’d been in, and it was like coming out of a dream. You know, like it didn’t feel like a fog when I was in it, but it sure did now.

Real quiet, she said, “I don’t know. Things like this happen to me sometimes.”

We sat there for a long time, sitting in the front seat, looking forward, not saying anything.

Then I said, “Did you happen to see the manager giving that broom handle the eye?” I asked.

We both burst into laughter, and sure it was awful, but it was funny as hell. All those people, all that craziness. We laughed for what seemed like an hour... one lady even pulled out a vibrator from her purse and her husband screamed at her just before he started begging for her to give it to him... Jesus H. Christ, what a night.

Then, the laughter died and we sat again, considering. Then giggled. Then sat.

But finally I said, “Stace, um... I don’t think I can hang with you once we get back.”

God, she looked hurt, and it stung. We were best friends. “But... why?” she asked, barely holding back the tears. Great. Now a crying drunk.

Even still feeling the effects of the beer, I could think straight enough to say, “This was just too weird. I don’t think I can deal.”

She was silent for a minute. She stared out her window for a bit and said, “Fuck me. I get to lose my best friend. I need you to stay. Shit. Fuck me...”

After I ran to the roadside weeds and took care of a few things, I came back.

Oh, did I fuck her. I mauled her breasts, nibbled her earlobes. I removed her clothes, traced my tongue around her nipples and suckled like a baby. My hands found erogenous zones neither one of us knew existed. Before I knew it, I licked down her belly and found her wondrous pussy lips waiting for me. And her clit! All blistery and insanely hot. God, she tasted like heaven. Her legs clamping around my head, over and over, sent me over the edge myself—and believe me, that never happened before, not that way. Jesus, we fucked all night, and when I was too tired to fuck her, she fucked me.

We created a laundry list of lust and debauchery that could top a movie created by the most depraved pornmeister. I kept waiting for her to tell me to stop, but I think she was so shocked she couldn’t find words.

We finally fell asleep fucking. And when we woke up, I started again, but this time, she said, “Wait.”

I did. But I still wanted to fuck her more.

“Are we friends again?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll hang, but friends is a lot to ask, thinking about what I might be in for.”

“Aw, Dee. You know you love me,” she said, giving me a coy look.

Well. That was that, and the rest is history. And she’s still a ditz. But what can I say? I love her.

Someday, maybe I’ll tell you about our visit to the Luxuriant Latex store near Vegas.

Maybe.

And she’s still a ditz.