The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The shootings had been on Saturday night. On Tuesday, Amy’s shooting was ruled accidental, and Heather’s shooting was ruled self-defense.

The Atlanta Police told Heather and Amy, “You’re free to leave the city.”

And so Tuesday, Heather caught a flight back to Pueblo, Colorado. ”But,” Heather told Charlie-Bob and his parents, before she left—

“You guys will see me again. Because as soon as I can make it happen, I am moving myself, my furniture, and my dental practice to Sweet Onion. I’m getting tired of big-city life, and your town sounds so lovely. Besides, I’ll feel safer living in a town with a proven hero in it.”

SEVEN WEEKS LATER

SWEET ONION, GEORGIA

High school had let out ten minutes earlier, and now Rose O’Connor (“Call me Nightshade”) was in the Piggly Wiggly Supermarket, intent on buying a packet of ball-point pens.

Nightshade didn’t give a rat’s ass about school, but it’s hard to doodle pentagrams and crescent moons in your notebook during class time, when your last pen has run dry. Hence, Nightshade had detoured to the store to buy more pens.

Just as Nightshade was about to turn into the school-supplies aisle, she surprised Widow McGee and Mrs. Wilkes. Nightshade didn’t smile at the old women, and they didn’t smile at her. Nightshade didn’t smile because women smiling, when they didn’t feel like it, was one of the tricks that the Patriarchy used to keep women subjugated. Widow McGee and Mrs. Wilkes didn’t smile because—well, they were sourpuss bitches.

And sure enough, the old biddies started talking about her. From the next aisle over, Nightshade heard—

“Ah can’t believe that her mother lets her leave the house, looking like that! She looks like a witch, what with all that black.”

“Ah hear she is a witch.”

Damn straight, Nightshade thought. She and Karen and Luanne would meet behind Luanne’s garage, and chant for an hour, every night during a full moon. (Well, except for when it was raining.)

Nightshade still hadn’t figured out why Karen took part in these rituals. And Luanne? Luanne believed that if she chanted “We beseech thee, O Goddess” enough times, she’d win the Powerball Lottery. As for Nightshade herself, she was there mainly because she enjoyed kissing other girls and groping bare boob-flesh.

(Plus, while Nightshade suspected that the Earth Mother didn’t really exist, Nightshade would rather worship a Goddess than go to to First Baptist Church and become a thrall of the Patriarchy’s male-supremist, homophobic brainwashing.)

Then Nightshade mentally stuck out her tongue at the crones. For your information, my lipstick isn’t black, it’s maroon. It only looks black because of the black lipliner.

But back in the real world, Nightshade heard one of the biddies gasp. “Did you see that woman? She has implants!“

“But why is she all in white? Do you think she’s here for a Stripper-Gram?”

“If so, then we need to find out what man she’s danced for, and tell his wife. We’re a decent town!”

Nightshade was trying to figure out who they were talking about, when a woman of about thirty turned into the school-supplies aisle. She was carrying a shopper’s handbasket.

Oh Goddess! was Nightshade’s immediate reaction. The black-dressed teen stood like a statue, right by the ball-point-pen display, and stared at the blonde in front of her.

The woman’s bright blue eyes drew Nightshade’s own brown eyes to a perfect face; that face’s oval shape and high cheekbones being covered with creamy skin. The woman was tall, just under six feet, and she was fit. Honey-blond hair was pulled back into an enormous bun, without a hair out of place.

And Goddess, her boobs! It took all of Nightshade’s self-control not to attack the woman, strip her to the waist, and start slurping on those enormous and excellently shaped udders.

The woman’s low-heeled pumps, royal blue, were her only non-white clothing. Her pants were snowy white, and she was wearing a long-sleeved, high-collared white top that buttoned on her right side with white buttons.

Nightshade raised her voice to carry, both to the white-dressed blonde and to the old biddies: “Ma’am, those two old bats are talking about you.” Then in normal volume, Nightshade added, “They hate us both because we’re beautiful.”

The blonde gave Nightshade a model’s smile, then walked within six feet of her. The stranger stopped to put a receipt book into her handbasket, laying the receipt book atop two two-liter bottles of soda.

Nightshade had made her hate us because we’re beautiful comment as a joke, but now the blonde tilted her head and looked appraisingly at the raven-dyed teen. “I’ve only been here three weeks,” the blonde said, “but I’m sure that you’re the most beautiful Goth this town has.”

“Oh, Ah’m not a Goth, Ah’m a witch. Goths are into Death, while witches are into the cycle of life. That, and staying free of the Patriarchy Conspiracy.” Nightshade blinked. “Wait, you think Ah’m beautiful?”

“You are. And now I can make you a little more beautiful, by giving you a nicer smile.”

Nightshade gave the woman a genuine (hence rare) smile. “Whatever you cooked for me, Ah’m sure it’d be both nonfattening and delicious.”

“Whatever I cooked for you?” Then the blonde looked down at herself. “Dear me, this is embarrassing. I’m not a chef, I’m a dentist. Georgia-licensed by the way, as of fifteen minutes ago.” She stuck out her long-nailed right hand. “Heather Saint James, D.D.S.”

The teen girl shook the offered hand. “Call me Nightshade, please. Ah call myself a poisonous plant so that the boys will leave me alone.”

“Does it work?”

“Not completely. Hey, maybe you could tell me how to fend guys off after they keep telling me, ‘Oh baby, you’re so fucking hot.’”

By now, both women were in the checkout line (and drawing stares). Heather said, “My biggest piece of advice is, never lie to a man when you turn him down. Not even to spare his feelings.”

“Not a worry,” Nightshade said. “All the boys in this place are rednecks in the making. They don’t give a shit about my feelings, so Ah don’t care about theirs.”

“Not all the boys are rednecks,” Heather said. “You go to the high school, right? You probably know Charlie-Bob Owens.”

Nightshade shrugged. “Name sounds familiar. He’s a Sophomore, right? One of the nerds, Ah’m pretty sure.”

“He’s a Junior. But last November, he got shot in the leg, trying to save me and another woman from a nasty gunman.”

Nightshade’s mouth fell open. “That shit was true? Ah figured that the boy made the whole thing up, to impress some nerdette.”

“Nope, he’s a sixteen-year-old genuine hero. I was there, and what they printed in your paper was all true.”

By now, both women had paid the cashier. Heather turned to Nightshade and said, “May I show you my office? I’d really enjoy it if you could be the first name in my appointment book.”

Nightshade replied, “Ah’ll have to call my mom, to get permission to make the appointment, but sure.” But meanwhile, Nightshade was wondering, Is Heather hitting on me?

Then Nightshade mentally slapped herself awake. C’mon, does any woman who looks as good as Heather looks, need to play games?

They walked out of the grocery store into the cold wind. Nightshade said, “If you want, we can go in my car. It’s old, but the heater works.”

“Thanks, but my office is right next to the store here. Why else in January would I come into the store without a coat?”

Sure enough, the walk was only a brief one, before Heather was unlocking a door in a medical office park. By the door was a sign, “Heather Saint James, Dentist.”

The waiting room had magazines (showing Colorado subscription labels) on the table, and toys, and a TV that was mounted to the wall. Under the TV was a poster of a happy tooth who was holding a toothbrush and a spool of dental floss. But there were no people in the waiting room, neither a receptionist nor patients; and the TV was black and silent. Nightshade felt weirded out.

At the receptionist’s desk was an open appointment book; sure enough, it was blank. Mom agreed to an appointment for Nightshade to get her teeth cleaned. Perhaps Mom consented because Nightshade had so many good things to say about Dr. Saint James, or maybe it was the cheap introductory special?

Nightshade was shown three rooms that eventually would have dental chairs in them, requiring three dental hygienists to clean teeth in those chairs—

“—but right now you see only the one chair, I have only one hygienist hired, and she clearly isn’t working right now.” Heather shrugged, smiling. “But I’m an optimist.”

Nightshade was shown a records room, empty of both a recordskeeper and even one folder. That, too, was out-weirding.

The last stop was a small room that was, Heather said, her office. The desk chair faced a corkboard that was blank, except for a photo of a laughing Heather in a tight white ski outfit. Skier-Heather looked scrumptious. Goddess, Nightshade thought, I want this woman so much.

Nightshade turned from the photo to facing the real Heather again. The teen intended to say something light and casual, but before she could speak a word, Heather cocked her head and looked at her.

“You’re hot for me,” Heather said. It wasn’t a question. “You desire me.”

Nightshade felt panic. “Oh shit, was Ah that obvious?” Then Nightshade asked a second later, her voice strained, “Are you mad? Do Ah disgust you?”

“It depends. What do you want to do with me?”

Heather herself had told Nightshade, not fifteen minutes earlier, “Don’t lie.” So now Nightshade answered Heather’s question honestly: “Ah’d like to caress your boobs and suck on your nipples. Then Ah’d like to pull off your pants and panties, and tongue your strong ab muscles around your navel. Then Ah’d push you into that dental chair and lick your slit till sunrise. And it would be so wonderful if you would lick me back, but if not, Ah’d be cool with that too.”

“You flatter me,” Heather said, “your having such detailed fantasies about me.” Then Heather took Nightshade’s face in her hands, and pulled the girl’s lips toward her own.

In so doing, one of Heather’s long fingernails scratched Nightshade on her forehead, just below the hairline. But Nightshade was not about to complain.

Heather’s lips were soft. The last thoughts that Nightshade ever had, were about what a great kisser Heather was.

Five minutes and 27 seconds after starting the kiss, Heather broke it. She said to the black-haired teen, “You are Welcomed to the Club, Rose-16184906.”

Pleasure Unit/Welcomer Rose-16184906 said, “Ah’m so glad. And Ah hope Ah get a chance to, like, serve King James just as you have, you know?”

“Oh, you will, you will. Because King James has given me special instructions to pass on to all bimborg in Sweet Onion....”

Seconds later, the teen girl replied, “Special Instructions received and understood. This unit will, like, totally comply. Because Ah know that King James will be counting on, you know, me.“