As far as weekends go? I'd end up having a few great ones. That first one? It may not be the best, but I remember it just as vividly as the more decadent ones. It was probably the last time Miranda and I were perfect.
We fucked three times that weekend -- the first fuck, the angry fuck, and then a slow, languishing fuck after she woke up from her nap. She blamed me for her lack of sleep that night, but couldn't stay mad at me long when she woke up naked and horny. She rode me to a couple orgasms and was content just to whisper light moans in my ear instead of the characteristic dirty talk. I was content as well.
We hung out for a bit this time, too. She clearly felt badly for chasing me off yesterday, so we made pizza rolls and watched Netflix. But as we talked, we decided: we weren't going to date. Miranda thought our sex was great and figured our dynamic didn't need any changing; I knew that her mind just wanted to fuck and suck cock and beg for cum and nothing else. I considered playing her a tune and convincing her to become my doting girlfriend, but thought better of it. The balance I had struck seemed workable for now. More big changes meant more attention.
I asked Miranda if she was going to tell anyone about us. It was a housekeeping item to cover my back on my exploits, but she viewed it as the petulant question of a bruised ego, so she shrugged and didn't commit. I didn't really care, but I figured her friends would question a sudden interest in sex with the tutor -- especially when that interest was allegedly harbored for years.
She asked when I wanted to...hang out again. I told her Friday, when I'd see how she did on multivariable calculus and reward her for good work. She told me to fuck off.
Eventually we ran out of loose ends to tie up and made up our respective reasons to split. I wanted to update my notes on FocusTunes; she wanted to keep me from catching feelings. I helped my dad with errands and housework for much of the remaining day, spinning some bullshit about a decent enough first date that further Miranda appearances would be explicable. When he learned she was one of my tutees, he told me that pretty girls like smart guys. I almost told him that smart guys like brainwashing technology.
As I went to bed, I was pretty proud of myself. My situation with Miranda was better, my pops didn't think anything was off, and my research on FocusTunes had a strong foundation now. I was behind on homework and had to reschedule a Sunday tutoring session (with our star outside linebacker, before you get excited) to later in the week -- but it still felt like a weekend well spent.
My high quickly expired. As most optimism does.
The first blow came in the morning before homeroom. I was in tense negotiations with my irrepressible combination lock -- a quaint morning tradition -- when Miranda walked by, ensconced in a pack of perfumed she-wolves. Before I could stop myself, I sent her a grin. "Hey!"
She sent me a smile back, but her eyes were cautious. "Hey, Ben. Good weekend?"
Ah. I had forgotten that we, you know...hadn't seen each other all weekend. Or done anything. To each other.
"Uh, yeah." I shrugged. "Pretty quiet." She half-snickered at that, which was a win.
"Same."
There was a moment of silence.
"Alright, I'll...uh, I'll see you in third block?" she asked.
"Yeah."
And she was gone.
Well, that was decisively less magical than my recent conversations with Miranda. My locker gave way, but I didn't feel the typical sense of victory. Fortunately, her friends had been too engrossed in themselves to notice my awkwardness.
Unfortunately, my friends had not been so limited.
"Nice moves, man."
Heidi Ryan had lived a few blocks down from me for the last several years; she was another test-in. Her older sister drove us to school for the years before we could drive ourselves, and we became pretty good friends on those bleary-eyed rides. She was pretty stereotypically Gaelic in appearance: copper-red hair, pale skin, light freckles dusting her nose and collarbone. Her eyes were blue and acerbic, as was her tongue. Not blue, obviously -- just acerbic. Whatever. You get it.
"I literally just said hello," I said defensively. "I'm allowed to say hello to people, right?"
"Yeah. Just next time, have something planned to say afterward."
"Oh, I'll be sure to heed your advice, with all of your experience considered." The Ryan family was pretty devoutly Catholic -- I never knew Heidi to curse, drink, or fuck -- so her dating log was limited to chaste coffee meet-ups with bland choir boys. Though, I never knew her to be a judgmental prick, either...so maybe she wasn't that devout of a Catholic.
"We've got about the same success rate, and I'm not even trying." She popped a bubble of gum. "What does that tell you?"
"That you don't know my success rate as well as you think," I muttered.
"Yeah, right." She snorted, starting to make her way down the hall.
I was pissed. I had felt confident this morning, and deservedly so. I was fucking an absolute knockout, and if her feedback -- given while compelled to trust me -- was any indication, she was fucking
loving
it. But, for as good as that power felt, I couldn't manifest it over my daily life. To Sunday Miranda, I was a stud -- but to Monday Miranda, I was still one of several friend-zoned suitors she had to endure. And to Heidi? I was still a lower-class geek fawning over the higher rungs on the social ladder. Everything had changed -- but nobody knew it. And if nobody knew it...had anything really changed?
So as Heidi departed, I checked her out. Brazenly, too -- a full lean back and once over. Fuck anybody who saw.
She was thin, but her ass looked firm in dark, high-waisted jeans, and the freckles on the back of her neck flickered behind a swinging high ponytail. I had checked out Heidi many times, mostly out of lustful instinct, but I'd never made a move. We clearly wanted different things. But if I wanted, I could take her wants away from her and replace them with mine. That was an option now. So as that ass turned the corner, I watched it the entire way. It belonged to my vision now; it craved my appraisal.
Once she left my view, my frustration ebbed, and my conscience returned. That was...not a great sequence of emotions there, man. Yes, I was frustrated with my social situation, which was at best limiting and at worst openly unfair. But if I let every inequality tip me over the edge and spur me to action, I'd start really doing things that I regretted -- just after I had quelled my one outstanding regret from the weekend.
I needed to make a commitment. Right here, right now, to myself. Unflinching and non-negotiable. I wasn't going to act out in reven--
"Did you say something to Miranda?"
I whipped around. Emily Brooks was staring me down, her arms folded over clenched books and a scowl on her face.
I wanted to fuck Emily Brooks.
Everybody
wanted to fuck Emily Brooks. She was one of Miranda's clique: a willowy young woman of Asian descent with a substantial Instagram following and a budding modeling career. She had flawless, milk chocolate skin and cascading hair that ombre-ed from light brown into a deep blonde. Her resting face was superior, with thin arched eyebrows and defined cheekbones -- when she smiled, it was with practiced ease and beauty. She wore rings with real stones on each hand, manicured nails clutching a handbag with 25,000 Gucci logos tessellating across it, just in case it wasn't clear what she thought she was worth.
She was waiting for an answer; I had a thousand different ones in my head. I didn't know why she was asking or what she suspected, so I didn't know what danger to react to. It was in that moment that I realized: I hadn't built up any defenses. I didn't have the FocusTunes app, Miranda was inaccessible for this sort of emergency, and I had no alibi for the weekend. I had no power over Emily. I wasn't prepared.
"...no?" When in doubt, play extremely dumb.
"No? Did she say anything to you?" She didn't believe me.
"I mean...I said hi to her this morning, and she seemed fine?" Play dumb play dumb play dumb. "Is she okay?"
"She's acting weird." Emily flipped her hair off her shoulder, unveiling a prominent collarbone and the soft, rounded swells of mouthwatering tits over a low-cut top. "She canceled on us on Friday night after she was with you and she seemed like,
really
shaken up. Abby and Bianca said she was weird on Saturday and then we barely heard from her on Sunday, either."
Fuck. I had forgotten how interwoven these fucking friend groups were. They could clock missing hours and out-of-character behavior like detectives verifying an alibi.
"I dunno." I tried to look concerned. "She seemed totally regular on Friday night. Have you tried asking her about it?" I needed to know if Miranda had said anything.
"No!" Apparently that question was a dumb one. "If something was wrong, she wouldn't tell us."
"That's weird. Why wouldn't she tell her friends if something was wrong?" Emily scowled at me again -- that was another dumb thing to say. This time, I knew it was.
"Just...tell me if she tells you anything, okay?"
Before I could respond, she flounced away. A new frustration boiled back up in my chest, even angrier than the first. This bitch was clearly far more interested in Miranda's drama than her well-being. Her biggest concern was being in the know. This was the sort of bullshit that occasionally leaked through Miranda's shell in her weakest moments -- the impatience with the petty shit, the exasperation with fake friends. I was a convenient person for her to vent to, in those moments. I was disassociated, always on her side.
The bell rang, shrill as always, to emphasize my lateness. I hustled into homeroom. In my seat, I stewed, and in my stewing, indulged myself again. I ogled Heidi once again, then Nikki, then Charlie (short for Charlotte, before you get any ideas, boys). I liked looking at them, because they were attractive and I was irrepressibly horny -- but I liked looking at them even more than usual this time around. I could pick any one of them and with a jingle, unlock the door to their minds and rummage around at will. Fuck you if that doesn't make you a little bit hard.
I'd never do it, of course. But it was a nice fantasy.
The nicest fantasy of the day was Emily. I thought about her long legs during first block and her soft features in second block. I shared third block with her and Miranda -- they were in the same lab group in chem -- and every time I glanced at Miranda, I sent a scathing look Emily's way. She moved with a familiar arrogance to Miranda's grace, hurling her boldest smile at our middle-aged lech of a chem professor when he circled by to "check their work."
Despite my best instincts, I started mapping out methods to get Miranda's song in her head. I liked planning, logistics, scheming -- it was just natural for me to put the pieces together, even if I'd never act on my machinations.
I knew that I couldn't manipulate Miranda into playing the song for Emily. That had too many moving parts, too much risk at hand. I needed access to the app at my own disposal.
Under the cover of my lab desk I opened my phone and accessed the app store. I'd just download the app for emergencies. No more girls, no more Miranda meddling, no irresponsibility. Just for emergencies.
I tapped it out: F-O-C-U-S-T-U-N-E-S
Nothing showed up.
I checked my spelling. Nothing.
I scrolled down the list. Nothing. No red note, no opened eye. Nothing.
Of course it couldn't be that easy. Mind control apps aren't really public domain, I suppose.
Well, that's for the best. Let's be honest -- I wasn't
just
going to have the app just for emergencies. That was a nice thing you said to yourself while the tiny voices in the back of your head hatched their nefarious plans. The app, on my phone, was going to give me far too much power -- power that would certainly corrupt.
With that said
, it was still a risk to walk unarmed through the battlefield. I had used the app; I had manipulated Miranda. If someone in their right mind found out what I had done, I'd be fucking arrested at best. In that nightmare situation, blasting the music could give me the moment I needed to control or escape that danger.
I could ask Miranda. She must have gotten it from somewhere. But I had no idea how much she remembered about the music. If I asked her about the app, would it spike her memory? Would she remember using the app over the weekend, getting my phone call on Friday while listening to the song? Even though I had normalized her responses to my commands, she still had the memories of her uncontrollable blowjob obsession, still felt that urge to suck me off again. Would she start to piece together the puzzle?
Fuck. My options were running low. And at the bottom of the barrel, there's only one place you can go.
Reddit.
