0 comments/ 23358 views/ 1 favorites Mindfuck By: Ms_Messalina The snap of the metal nib into the slot of the garter belt, the adjustment of my stockings so that my ass and cuntlips are so very much on display, so that the wind can hit them just as He snakes His hand under my skirt is a luxury one either gets or doesn't. Either you see it as an encumbrance and an annoyance, or you see it for the frame that it is for my most vulnerable spots. To offer them as a gift to my lover excites me. I like the ritual of dressing, imagining what will turn Him on when I know quite well that these - the heels, the collar, the lace bra, the stockings, the earrings - will please Him just as my wearing nothing would please Him. He did not tell me what to wear. He no longer needs to. Of course long before I chose any of this, I waxed myself, the pain only another reminder of my desire to please Him. I've always been amused by the exaggeration of how it feels to wax oneself. I choose waxes that are gentle, effective and aromatic with cinnamon or vanilla. The warmth of it on my skin reminds me of the candle wax He dripped on me when I was little more than a girl. The possibility of damage, the trust it took to allow it, again my aching vulnerability rewarded with sensual delights that scarred me much more deliciously than any mere sexual encounter could have. He promised me a night like no other and from Him that was no small matter. I have never known anyone whose perversity complemented mine so well. I have been driven to madness by Him, horizontally and vertically. Both my brain and my body used and opened like a delicious orange for Him to devour, each new segment bursting and dripping for Him alone. For days after our encounters, I feel the battering of His hand in my cunt. I walk with a silent ecstasy through the halls of my workplace knowing how that pulsing painpleasure got there and I know without a doubt that nobody in that building or within miles of it has ever been fucked so completely. Brushing my hair, I feel His hand expertly pulling my head toward His cock so that He may use me, make me cough out my lust and ruin the pretty makeup I have applied just for Him. The bruise left on my ass in the shape of His hand – my reminder of how close we walk to the edge and a promise, like the rainbow, that it will never happen again. He had dispatched a car to pick me up at my hotel. When the driver called my room, I walked through the lobby noticing the families and couples staring at my disgracefully high heels, my shamelessly red lips and my collar. Though many clearly disapproved, there were more than a few who simply stared at what they thought was a whore. I wondered what they might think if they knew I was doing this not for money, but for lust. I met their eyes, winking surreptitiously at a handsome father who I am sure gave his soccer mom wife a time that night. I like that, stirring lust, even if I am not on the receiving end. Just a little sexual bodhisattva. My gift to them. . . The driver was waiting by the door. I tried to make eye contact, but he refused, though I did see him staring at my legs, the seam of my stocking fixing him to the spot. Ever the professional, he only slightly adjusted the crotch of his trousers as he closed the door. I settled in for what I thought would be a long ride to the country. I had heard of houses where parties began on Friday and did not end until the last guest left, but I could not imagine how to get myself invited. When He suggested I gain my freedom for a weekend, I dared not hope it could be such an arrangement. A few minutes into the ride, I realized we were not leaving the city, but heading to another high-rise hotel. Fine, I thought, I like hotels. And though I desperately wanted to run a finger around my slickening lips, I knew He would inspect me for such unapproved explorations. Rather than encourage His wrath, I wanted to prove my devotion to Him. I waited and felt my upper thighs grow slick and warm with my own anticipation. My clitoris pulsed, but like His good girl, I waited. We pulled up to the lobby and the driver opened my door. "You are to wait in the lobby, whore." I was shocked as much as by the sound of his voice as by his choice of word. What right had he? Every right, I remembered. A night like no other, His voice echoed in my memory. I took a seat at the bar and before I could order, a vodka tonic was set before me. "From the gentlemen in the corner," said the predictably blonde bartender. I turned to see my benefactors when I realized this was just the beginning. I quickly counted four of them. I smiled in acknowledgement of the gesture, but was too uncertain to approach them. What if they weren't in on the plans? What WERE the plans? Where was He? I heard His voice in my ear. "Breathe, Samantha. Breathe." Like so many times before, I did as He commanded and as my breath escaped, three of His fingers slid into me and His thumb made circles on my clit. I hadn't even seen His face yet, but His breath in my ear and His hand on my cunt were all I needed. I knew the length of my skirt was not enough to hide this to anyone in the bar. Then it dawned on me. Other than the bartender, there were no other women. Plenty of men, too many to take in, at least four groups, but I was certain I was the only woman there for a reason. The door of the bar had been locked and the music turned up. "For you, my pet. Now go. For me." And as suddenly as He came, He was gone. I burned from the emptiness, but understood it was His desire for me. I hobbled to the corner booth where the four men waited. Their faces don't matter. I couldn't recall them if I tried. But I can remember their smell, the mingled sweat and soap and peppery scent that men carry with them from their chests up. But that wasn't what I was there for. I downed my drink quickly, unceremoniously. "Hello," I said to them for lack of anything else to say. They mumbled hellos as well, but then the youngest one told me to turn my back to the table and show them the ass they were going to fuck that night. My head reeled. Only one Man had ever done that. I wasn't sure I could do it. Two of the men took it upon themselves to lift my skirt, a small matter indeed. I could feel their calloused fingers on my flesh. They squeezed me and pulled my cheeks apart and slapped my ass as I arched my back into it. If this was His design, it must be because He trusted me to fulfill my own desires, too. He gave me permission. He made it safe to sate my inner slut. Without Him, I could not have given the men what they wanted. As the two held my ass open, a third, I think he was older, began using my cuntjuice to lubricate my anus. "You have a great ass, Samantha. He must love seeing it used like this." And with no more than that he wiggled two fingers into me. I don't know what shocked me more, that he did it so quickly or that I liked it so much. "God, girl. You're already ready. Good." The two turned me so that I was now belly down on the table and each grabbed one of my thighs to hold me steady. I asked to get up on my knees, and to my surprise, they helped me. Fine, I thought, at least they understand it should be fun for me, too. The fourth man had found a way to position himself on the table and was now stroking his hard but smallish penis. Still, he had a certain innocence in his eyes and I figured that one good way to accept the inevitable ass fucking I was about to get was to fellate the man in front of me. I bent forward, raising my ass in the air (all the better to get to you, my dear. . I really was beginning to disassociate) while taking the cock into my mouth. He didn't go past the tight ring of my throat, but considering what was about to happen, that was fine. I felt the older man continue massaging my asshole as at least one of the henchmen dropped a long line of spit on me. Then I was empty for only a moment when I heard the older man groan as he opened my ass with his cock. I breathed like He told me to when I felt like I couldn't take any more and it worked as it always had with Him. The man settled into a rhythm, taking his time. I realized that the cock in my mouth was beginning to pull back in pre-orgasm shaking, so I braced for his load. It came as I thought it would, too little in volume, but certainly serviceable. I held it in my mouth, tasting the sweetness of it, then smiled at him as I let it drip down my chin, my whole body thrusting with the weight of the man behind me. When one of the two men on the assist told him that the younger one had come, his rhythm increased. "You little slut. He said you'd want it, more than one. I didn't think you'd start so fast." And with that he slapped my ass once. He turned to the men holding my legs. "Go ahead. She obviously doesn't need to be too warmed up any more. I can handle it all back here." I wasn't sure what these next two men had in mind, but I knew one of them had a soft hairy belly and the other one spent a lot of time in the gym. But the thing about bodies, if they are capable of doing what they came for, not much else matters. These two knew what they were about. The hardbody slid under me on the table. I could not rationalize what happened next, but he bit my neck as he timed his entry into my cunt with the first man's anal rhythm. My head burst again as I realized what was going on. So full, so full so full so full. . . .Where is He? Can He see me? "I'm right here, beautiful woman. My cumslut to give away. My fucker. Mine. MINE." His voice was calm, but with an intensity I had not known. I reached for His cock, needed to feel it in my hands, an anchor to the familiar, but he had receded into the shadows yet again. The softer one had replaced the small one at my head. His cock was big, curved up and uncut. I could see him pump the foreskin over his head. I made the effort to take him in my mouth, but he wanted something else. He teased me with it, struck it against my face and tongue, but he was clearly into jacking off. "C'mon," I said, "do it. Shoot for me, Daddy. Give me your cock. Please." I pleaded, but he just smiled what was a very sexy smile and continued to watch me take it in the ass and pussy at the same time. At about that time, I felt the man in my ass begin to moan and announce his orgasm. All three men fell into his rhythm and my body couldn't hold back any longer. We came in waves; who first I could not tell, but I felt sperm hit my anus and back as he pulled out to show his prowess. I heard a collective grunting from the men who had gathered around the table to watch. I felt the man in my cunt come, his cum and mine soaking him. But it was the other man I watched now, intently. His sperm came thick and fast and coated, not me, but the face of the man below me, the one who had just come in my cunt. "Now lick it up like a good girl." His voice had come out of nowhere. I bent my head down to do His bidding. The hardbody lay impassively letting my tongue lave the other man's sperm from his eyes and forehead. "Open your mouth and show it to me, Samantha." I did. The dark smell of sex and cum flooded my senses as I displayed my dripping mouth to Him. "Now rub it on your cunt." Again, I did as He instructed. "Good girl. Now, only three more tables to go, my beautiful little cocksucker." MindFuck A snippet from my mind on the journey from London to York... By the time I get onto the train to York I've fucked 17 people. I know, because I counted them. I don't remember them all, though I'm guessing they'll remember me. At least for an hour or two. It started with Monserat, the only one whose name I know - not that I bothered to ask, but she was clearly proud as it was displayed over her chest. She was the black girl at the tube station, who didn't flinch when I bent into her booth to suck on one of those named breasts, and barely seemed to notice as I stuck my fingers into her, rubbed her clit, paid her my 15 quid and, with a click of my cuban heels, positively waltzed down the escalator. She was number one, and you never forget the first. In the platform, I tried the two London Underground workmen, chunky and with those sleeveless yellow jackets, but no, not a flicker. I guess they get offers all the time. From then on it was madness. I started with the old guy opposite; short, heavy-lidded, dressed in those grey/beige trousers and jacket that pensioner guys seem to be given as a uniform. He wasn't having it. My second rejection? But no, we'll get back to him. A family got on, grandparents and a kid - middle class, and the grandad had that air of once-was about him. He sought me out. Bam. And the game began. So I'm sitting on the tube, you know what I'm looking like... rock chic hair, leather jacket, brown boots, dress, today all rounded off with brown lipstick, dripping with shiny things... I think of a name... Hell, mindfuck works for me. Wanna play? So I fuck the grandad. He wants more, and more and more. Fuck him. This was a start and to me, it barely counts. However, it's given me confidence and I, truly, feel fired up. Hot-tish. Wet-tish. I fuck three black guys in succession, but they're too easy. And beige-grey guy is starting to annoy me. Who-the-fuck does he think he is? I lay my head against the glass panel that separates me from the damn fine pretty boy, 30s, jeans, whatever, who is standing beside me, and, hell, I'm sure he won't be too distressed if I just, why it's a perfect height, me sitting and all... So, I do... I reach my hands, both arms, around, and I guide his arse around that panel, just right in front of me. I remember that I'm being trained; trained to cum just through sucking your cock, and I guess any practise can only be a good thing. And so - and I'm not sure exactly when he notices - I unzip him, lift his soft cock up to stare at me, and lick the tip. I guess he notices now, because he kind of looks down, but no-one else seems to and I lick some more. No fuss. Casual. Like an ice-cream cone that's starting to drip, I lick, one day holding him, the other - as instructed - slips down to myself, and I notice that my legs are wider open than I'd realised. I also notice, with an increasing irritation, the beige slacks man is still seemingly oblivious. Pah. So... I am definitely awakening 30s-boy, but, out of the corner of my eyes, I notice a smally-blondly-softly-plumply blond woman I recognise from a previous fuck. She, and I'm counting this as one of my 17, fuck you, mate, no arguments here, has noticed my tongue, and fuck me if she isn't damn splayed out, cocky bitch, one leg on the arm of her seat, damn cunt out for the whole world to see, though only I notice. Not true, I think beige-man might be starting to see, but... Nope, I look down, still ice-creaming me, at his crotch, and see the same shapeless nothing as before. She's staring at me, legs open wide (she's wearing a little dress, was too damn little, but, all-credit to her, it presses the buttons), finger-fucking herself, all tit-squeezy. Okay, I'm kind of doing the same, but I reckon the cock tongue gives me extra points. And I wonder - if I'm being trained up to cum as I suck your cock, does it count if I make someone else cum by watching... Count? I reckon this is extra points and, fuck me, you, if that awakening cock doesn't suddenly take on a familar form... But anyway... Grandad fucked, the three black guys, blondy, and, yes, I'm going to gloss over as the rest becomes a blur. As the ice-cream begins to drippily meltily I lick round the tip a little more. Jesus, you. I know that damn cock, better than its face, I do, and the more familiar it becomes (and I see from those veins you've finally noticed me, cocky-boy) and at this realisation I just want it inside me. Now. Right fucking now. But, given the current situation this would. I reflect, be entirely inappropriate, and so I look up at you, and I look at that cock, and, you, no word of a lie. I just love it. No mouth. Just tongues, I lick the whole goddamn-ness of you, rub my cheek against that cock, trace its veins with my tongue. Lick the whole damn area. No mouth. Just tongue. The inner thigh, while your balls rest, the smoothness of your balls. Just rub my soft damn cheek around the whole fucking lot, on a tube train to king's cross station. And then I just stop and look at what we've made. Fuck. Fuck but I want that inside of me. No mistake, no fucking mistake. I'm so wet and sooft and aching, fucking painful here now, remembering it as I sit in my first class carriage, sipping tea and heading speedily north. I take that into my mouth, you standing in front of me, one hand pulling your arse back and forth to me, the other, trying to focus on myself, but honestly, I don't care. My lips, those damn fucking lips of mine, around your cock, just taking in as much as I can, leaving you just standing, me doing most of everything, just now thinking, fuck, I just want you to come, with that force, into my mouth and down my fucking throat. Just, truly, giving up on the pussy and focusing on the thought and the reality of what I'm going. You just smooth and hard in my mouth. Down my damn throat. And now babe, woah. Cum, just please. I'm feeling, not thinking, just feeling. And all, in this world, right now, you, on a fucking train, with the world rushing past, no word of a lie, I sneak into the toilet and fucking finish this damn thing while thinking of you, your cock, just fucking shooting what it so much has for me, and we both know this, down my throat. And babe? My eyes are still dazed and glazed now Mindfuck: Wanting the Lie I met Tom a few years ago when I was a freshman in high school. I was going through my awkward identity crisis phase, and in many ways, I still am. Back then, sex for me meant reading trash online and using what I learned from that to write trash of my own. I had never been touched by a guy. To most of the guys in my school, I may as well have been a desk or a book or some inanimate object that didn't immediately grab their attention. Even back then, Tom was one sick fuck. I guess that was what appealed to me about him. That, and the fact that he was older than me. He was one of those guys everyone was convinced would blow up his school or something. I recall games like "Nail Jesus to the Cross" and the internet hitlist being on his website. I recall feeling frustrated with myself and generally pissed off at humanity for no apparent reason back then. Even now, I must confess that I occasionally have the urge to tear the whole damn world apart. But inexplicable aggression aside, I started a new hobby of sorts, which eventually led into my double lifestyle of stereotypically good little Asian girl during the school year and being somewhat of a tramp over the summer. It started with one little email. It wasn't much, but it was enough to get Tom's attention. It basically read like a letter to Penthouse, but told from the girl's point of view. I told him things like how much I wanted to tease him in his sleep and eventually fuck him. I sent similar emails to other guys I knew from various websites, but they never materialized into anything outside of casual online conversation. However, I did end up meeting guys over the internet, which led to some rather interesting encounters...but that's an entirely different story. After awhile, I stopped hearing from Tom and he stopped updating his website. Eventually I forgot about him and my various online flings and had a long term relationship that eventually did more damage than any of the guys who had previously used me ever could. But once again...that's a completely different story. In college, I've found that sex is pretty much available any time I want it. This is problematic since I once had naive notions of waiting for someone I could love. You know, that whole forever thing. Now, I've figured out that it is not wrong to pursue pleasure for the sake of pleasure. Unfortunately, I seem to have fallen into yet another exclusive relationship. I figure it's a bit safer that way, and the guy seems genuinely interested in me. Oddly enough, I didn't meet Alan at a poetry reading in a local coffeehouse or in the library as I had often dreamed about meeting intellectual, and of course, attractive, guys. Considering the fact that he and I go to the same university in the same town, meeting online was a strange turn. It seems to be fitting since guys tend not to be interested in me when first seeing me in person. At first I thought Alan would just be a nice rebound fling to get me over Dan. I even thought that casually losing my virginity to him was one last "fuck you" to my ex-boyfriend. However, things got serious before Thanksgiving break and I suppose we are an item now. Most people can't imagine me seeing someone without being serious about him. Alan's sexual style is, best put, conscientious. He asked me numerous times if I was sure that I wanted to have sex with him. He asked me if he was hurting me. After it was all said and done, he asked me if I had had an orgasm or not. For me, it's a bit hard to be in the moment and fully enjoy the act if the person I'm with has a case of neurosis and anxiety about pleasing me. It's nice that he wants to please me, but everything we do seems forced. I would give him head only because it seemed like the logical progression. Whenever we would sleep together, we would always face away from each other. I would curl up on one side of the bed, and he would lie on his back on the other. Spooning was practically out of the question, but I was never crazy about waking up with someone breathing morning breath down my neck. I can't really complain though. It's very rare that a guy thinks about how a woman feels or worries that he can't adequately please her. However, like with Dan, Alan seemed to be more of the "girl" in the relationship if you go by stereotypical gender roles. I always feel like I'm the one initiating things. Also, from what I've heard, most guys do not like giving oral sex. Sure as hell, any guy would gladly accept oral sex, but when it comes to reciprocating the act, most either refuse to do it or do it grudgingly. In the case where guys only do it grudgingly, I fail to see the point in doing it at all. However, I could barely set foot in Alan's room without him tearing off my pants and licking me frantically. Then again, this was before I had sex with him. So, I guess that perhaps for him, oral sex is an obligatory step before getting to the main act. This is where Tom returns to the picture. After a weekend of waiting for Alan to get off, I got home and went online in a futile attempt to study for upcoming quizzes, exams, and researching for papers. Out of nowhere, an instant message window popped up with a vaguely familiar screen name. His first question was "do you remember me?" How could I forget someone like Tom? Especially since he was one of my first adolescent crushes that didn't brush me off with a "hell no" or a halfhearted "maybe." How could I forget someone who helped me awaken the darker, more dangerous side to myself? I found out that he had been single for more than a year after the woman he had planned on marrying completely dicked him over. When I first read that, I groaned inwardly since for some reason, I have the tendency to be the girl that everyone comes running to after messy breakups. Unfortunately, I have never had the opportunity to take advantage of such a position since guys could never see me as anything more than the cool girl they can talk to when they can't understand their girlfriends or when they're tired of touchy feely crap. Don't get me wrong, I love sharing my feelings and cuddling as much as the next girl, but I figure that some things should be used in moderation. I mean, if I want to complain about my job or talk about how insensitive guys are, I'll talk to my friends. That's what they're there for, and that's why I'm there for them. Tom found it amusing that I was currently dating a Computer Science major since he had dropped out of college and currently works as a software engineer. When he found out I still have certain fetishes (for band guys, especially trombone and bassoon players), he said "some things never change." I would like to think that I've changed. Yet in many ways, I'm probably still the same shy, socially awkward, geeky teenager he knew a couple of years ago. Then again, he still seems like the same antisocial bastard that I found myself fascinated with my sophomore year of high school. He even has a new website, but is still waiting to release it. We talked about exes along with my potential majors and future career paths. Then there was the seemingly random stuff that led up to the reason I'm writing this story. Like many times before with various guys, Tom and I ended up talking about sex. Despite our appearances of being inexperienced, we both seemed pretty disillusioned with relationships and sex. We agreed that there is no real meaning to sex other than the gratification one can achieve from it or procreation. When I told him about how I thought I lost my virginity as a last "fuck you" to my ex-boyfriend Dan, Tom joked that he would have gladly taken that job. Then again, few guys would turn down an offer of meaningless sex with an 18 year old college student. I sent him a more current picture of myself, despite the fact I was sweaty from getting crushed alive at a concert, but I figured it was appropriate with the whole equal balance of sex and violence and all that. The little "joke" about him wanting to fuck me turned into a more serious offer. He basically told me all of the things that just about any girl, or at least any girl as depraved as me, would want to hear. He told me that he thought I was hot and that I would look good oiled up on his bed. He said that he could do things to me that would make me scream and beg for more or just pass out from sheer ecstacy. Tom told me things I ordinarily wouldn't believe when using my common sense, but here's a secret, guys aren't the only ones who can think with their genitals. Any guy can say that he can fuck a girl for several hours on end. However, it takes one hell of a mindfucker to make her believe it, especially if he says it over instant messenger. Or perhaps, I was just mindfucking myself. Tom even said that after he was done with me, he would just put me back on the plane and I would never hear from him again. I asked myself "Is this what you want?" but in all truth, it wasn't so much what I wanted, but what I needed. It's one thing to be desired, but being pursued and broken like a wild animal is a different story. This was what Tom offered me. At one point, Tom even said that I would probably be a challenge to break, but we would both enjoy it. To him, the best part of sex wasn't his own orgasm, but the amount of control he would have over mine. Now, it probably sounds like I'm the stereotypical submissive Asian female. In all truth, I'm not. I generally don't take crap from anyone, especially guys. I'm extremely rapacious when it comes down to things. If I see something I want, I'll do my damnedest to get it. Unfortunately, I'm one of those people who prefers the hunt to the actual prize. Once something is easily in my reach, I tend to get bored. Perhaps this is what is going on with Alan, but right now, I'm not thinking about Alan. I'm still thinking about Tom's offer, how alien, but exciting it is to someone like me who has so little experience in these things. As I said to my ex-boyfriend, I like surprises. It's too damn bad he couldn't figure out what I meant by that. Tom said that he could get inside me in more ways than one. He compared the physical act of sex to advanced masturbation. The buildup, the teasing through clothing, the touching that would make me beg, just reading the words of someone so confident in his abilities appealed to me. He seemed to hit it on the head about Alan, but once again, this isn't about him. As Tom said, he would plant the seed, and even if he wasn't really that good, the buildup would be more than enough. My response was more of an agreement. I told him that most girls want to hear certain things not so much because they are true, but because of the feelings the words can envoke. It's not so much the destination, but the journey itself that matters when it comes to sex. Anyone can use a vibrator or a hand to get themselves off, but it's an artform to make someone want something so bad and not be able to have it, to not have that final release. A girl like me doesn't want to hear "I want to be with you forever and have children and live in the suburbs and drive an SUV." I want to hear "I'll give you the best three days of your life that you'll think about when your husband is having obligatory sex with you ten years from now." To this, Tom said "I want you to think about our nights together on the plane ride back and just quiver...touching yourself on the plane because you can't stand the thought that our days are over." As soon as I read that, I had images of myself sheepishly ducking beneath a blanket on the plane just so I could release some of the tension, the agony of being cut off from the potential of so much pleasure. I thought about him pinning me up against the wall, fucking me with my legs wrapped around him and screaming so loud that his neighbors would call the cops. I thought about him fucking me in every position possible and waking up sore the next morning. Any time Tom mentioned various sensitive spots such as my neck or my collarbone, I felt a lingering blush creep throughout my body, as if he was in the room touching me himself. I had forgotten how that felt, to be utterly consumed with desire that nothing else seems to matter. It was like sophomore year of high school all over again, the same longings, the lingering burn spreading from inside my chest and all over my body. I knew he had read some of the stories I had written, so somewhere in my mind, I knew that he knew exactly what to say to get me going, but I didn't care. The fact that he actually put forth the effort to say those things was enough for me. Tom even suggested that he could just be lying and making everything up as he went along. Yet like I said, I want the lie. He pointed out that our conversation had gone on for two hours. I told him that I wanted to find out what he could actually do to me in the same amount of time. Being such a tease, Tom suggested that someday I will find out. Naturally, I could not sleep that night. I writhed beneath my sheets, relishing the teasing sensations flooding my body, trying to prolong them by forcing myself not to masturbate, but eventually, I gave in. I don't think I've slept as well since I've gotten to college, especially since I finally slept around 2:00 a.m. The next morning wasn't much better. I could barely concentrate on my Greek quiz and probably made more stupid accentuation errors than I usually do. In band, I was late to rehearsal and missed a couple of entrances. At work, I barely heard anything anybody said to me and couldn't wait to clock out so I could go straight back to bed, not so much to relieve the tension, but to soak in it, the same way most women soak in the bathtub while reading trashy romance novels. Maybe the next time I have sex with Alan, I'll close my eyes and think of Tom instead. Hell, it might improve things, and he'll never know why. If Tom had such an effect on me after at least two years of no contact, I can't help but wonder what things would be like if he wasn't across the country from me. I suppose there's only one way of finding out, but I think that the mindfucking will do for now.