The Pact: A Master PC Tale
Chapter 1: The Lobby

Caution: This Mind Control Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, mt/ft, Ma/ft, Fa/Fa, ft/ft, Fa/ft, Ma/mt, Mult, Teenagers, Consensual, Romantic, NonConsensual, Reluctant, Mind Control, Lesbian, BiSexual, Heterosexual, TransGender, Fiction, Celebrity, Slut Wife, Wimp Husband, Incest, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Masturbation, Fisting, Squirting, Lactation,

Desc: Mind Control Sex Story: Chapter 1: The Lobby - A Master PC story, and the trials and errors of responsibility. And a teenage ballet school.

I was the one with the vision.

A successful author of both fictional children’s books and (once, long ago) childcare volumes designed for young parents, my career was pretty much where I wanted it to be when I entered into the pact with my co-conspirators. My pen name was L.C. Compton, and I had won a few small awards to go with a few decent royalty checks from each of my 25 books. But kiddie books often stay in print for years, and my series of the Peachy Keen Kids had staying power on the bookshelves.

The guys and gals who joined me in the waiting room of Susan Castle’s School of the Dance knew me as Larry (I preferred Lawrence, but it was a losing battle) Childers, and had some awareness of my career, but one of their kids had one of my books in the waiting room one week and no one said a word – including me.

I’m guessing I knew more about them than they knew about me.

Bud Wilson once owned a salvage yard, but his current, trendy calling was that of a picker, or a barn hunter, or dumpster diver or some such shit. All I knew was that he’d buy anything and apparently had a knack for reselling much of it. His athletic deer of a daughter, Belle, would often go with him and actually climb into death-defying places to better inspect an item. He was a great storyteller and his tales of their exploits passed the time for me many weeks.

Chuck Arnovsky was a computer geek. Not too hard to figure since he seldom spoke with us, instead he pecked away on his expensive looking laptop. I peeked over his shoulder once, and he was on the NASDAQ page speculating on stocks, I suppose. His younger son and his daughter, Missy, were both adept at computer language as well, I understood, as both were star students. Missy was almost plain-looking without makeup, but I’d seen her in war paint and she held her own with the other girls on and off the dance floor. His son Todd, as bright as he was, was a jock, plain and simple, who wouldn’t be caught dead here.

If anyone in this group was someone I could consider a friend, it was Doc – Dr. Mitchell “Mitch” Harris. A successful pediatrician, he was actually able to walk away from his practice each week to take his adorable daughter, Angel, to her dance class which was important because his wife, Arianna, suffered from a puzzling form of agoraphobia.

Once a talented student of Susan Castle, she all now but refused to leave her home since she experienced some kind of mysterious near-death experience. By all accounts, her daughter was a star in the making, owning the perfect porcelain complexion, endless legs and the face of an angel, befitting her name.

But she was nowhere near the gold medalist in this group of teenage bunheads. I’ll admit my daughter Stacy was a looker from the get-go her mother’s eyes and the face of her beauty queen she got from grandmother on my side. Her dancing ability was a mystery, a gift from God that had no viable connection to either side of the family. My mom loved to dance, but was as coordinated as a one-legged epileptic. Some things just happen, although I suspect her mother, my ex-wife, would have gladly been a dancer given the chance.

But Jacy McKinnon was the girl all of we dirty old men had eyes for when she walked through the lobby and out the door with her little sister, Mike, or more properly Michaela, who was likewise the belle of the junior group, and their devoted dad, Det. Mickey McKinnon, Daytown PD. McKinnon was there with us much of the time, but he was always absorbed in conversation on his cell phone or checking e-mails on his own laptop. It was apparent that he was involved in numerous active cases, and it did not take much eavesdropping to understand that he worked vice and sex crimes.

I was curious; but he was largely unapproachable. He would acknowledge a hello, but never had time or inclination for small talk or chit-chat. But the Internet is a wonderful thing; one night at home, I found his secret or, at least, his burden. His wife, Stormie (a spitting image of her daughters) was raped and left for dead when Jacy was an infant. In fact, she was kidnapped and held by person or persons unknown for about a week before she was freed mysteriously, but only after something unspeakable happened. To what extent she remained scarred, I couldn’t say, but you have to wonder.

Jacy’s mom recovered, eventually, but Stormie McKinnon was frail and was only an occasional presence at dance class. Covered head to toe almost like an Islamic devotee, she, too, was not inclined to converse.

At any rate, our daughters were among the senior students of the aforementioned Susan Castle, a former Rockette (pictures don’t lie, and her wall was covered with them) who also was classically trained a couple of decades ago. But for all her glamorous past, she was still pushing 60 and looked it in the face. Her leotards, however, spoke to a well-maintained dancer’s body and the girls were devoted students.

“I’d do her,” Bud muttered often enough.

“Which wrinkle would you fuck?” Chuck said without looking up from his laptop.

“You not getting enough at home?” I needled the scavenger, thinking of Sara, the still-hot redhead he married.

“At least you wouldn’t have to worry about knocking her up,” Doc chuckled from behind his People magazine.

“Hey, she’s still double-jointed,” Bud said defensively. “She might be fifty-something, but she can still put her legs behind her ears.”

“Who told you that?” I asked, actually curious. “Or is that a recurring fantasy of yours?”

“Belle told me,” he replied. “The girls were showing off their flexibility one day and she was able to do it just the same as them.”

“You saying all of our daughters can do that?” Doc asked. “Arrgh. That’s an image I don’t want or need in my head.”

McKinnon made a harrumph sound off in his corner that got everybody’s attention. He added nothing more and we fell into silence until the lesson ended.

I don’t really know how close our daughters were inside that studio, because when the lesson ended each day, each of them came out separately and never acknowledged the others. We came and went our separate ways each week with nothing more than a nod or a wave or a See ya.

This day, Stacy came out first, dressed in a stylish sun dress and a set of lifts designed to accent her world-class legs. As someone who failed to comprehend the subtleties of women’s fashion, I never understood why she and the other girls insisted on not wearing their school clothes after dance class, especially since they changed into their leotards and toe shoes as soon as they left our sight. As an additional puzzle today, Stacy wore just enough makeup to make Daddy nervous. I got a heart-warming smile and a chaste kiss on the cheek from my only surviving child.

“Hi, daddy!” she said with her paid-for smile; her braces having come off less than a month earlier. “Hope you weren’t bored sitting here all day.”

“We guys always seem to find something to talk about,” I said with a wave towards Doc and his Angel.

Looking that way, I didn’t see Mrs. Castle’s accompanist and nearly knocked over the frail, 70-year-old piano player who provided the live music for the girls’ routines.

“Oh, Lord! Mrs. Miller, are you all right?” I asked anxiously, steadying her with my free hand as Stacy did the same. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”

“That’s okay Mr., uh, Stacy’s dad,” she said, assuring me by patting my arm with a shaky hand. “I’m used to being part of the scenery.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say,” I said, trying not to be too loud. “You’re part of what makes Mrs. Castle’s studio so unique.”

“I suppose so,” she said as she gathered herself, an armload of sheet music pressed against her chest. “But this used to be my studio, once.”

“Really? I never knew that!” Stacy blurted. Her outburst had a couple of the dancers and their parents stopping in their tracks.

“Lord, girl, can’t we have a civil conversation without you getting all excited?” she said with some obvious annoyance. “Yes, I sold the studio to Susan 20 years ago when my gout made dancing impractical. Thankfully, I was able to keep playing piano, so I went from owner to employee for Susan. It’s been a blessing, really.”

Mrs. Miller left without further conversation and Stacy and I climbed into my two-year-old SUV. As is our routine, she reminded me to buckle my seat belt.

“Long session today,” I small-talked. “What she got you guys working on?”

“We ‘guys’ are working on the same routine we’ve been working on. Cats,” Stacy said as she smoothed out her skirt and fiddled with the radio. “We took a break because she had an announcement to make.”

“Really? Anything that concerns me?” I asked as I pulled onto the freeway for the 20-minute ride north. We lived well out of Bakersfield, but we stayed loyal to Susan Castle despite a move out of the neighborhood into Daytown proper.

“Only because you’re single,” Stacy grinned. “Ms. Castle said that a couple of her former students would be making a special visit to our class to talk about the routine. I’m not sure I remember the names, but one of them played in Cats on Broadway and another toured with it nationally.”

“That’s awesome. Makes me glad we stayed with the old lady,” I said, having to negotiate a turn in heavy traffic as I spoke.

“Daddy!” She smacked my arm. “She’s not old. You’re practically the same age.”

“Ouch. That’s not quite true Stace,” I defended my birth date. “She’s pushing 60, right? I only crept past 50 last year.”

She wasn’t listening. As I spoke, she pulled out her iPod and was already tuning in the music, having given up on the lame-ass shit that passes for FM radio these days.

She explained, “We download our music. Helps us visualize the routine.”

“I’m surprised she’s so well tuned into the new technology,” said me, who wasn’t really at all.

“Oh, it’s not her. It’s Miss Mathews,” she explained.

Ah. Mary Ann Mathews was one of her recent former students, a gifted dancer who instead opted for college and an education degree. He brain, talent and – let’s face it – looks would get her any job she desired, and indeed she would soon be leaving the area. In the meantime, she was working as an assistant at Castle’s, but she was already engaged to a loud Italian guy, which tempered the fantasy.

We approached our street, which was part of a massive subdivision that was obviously laid out by a deranged individual. Blind corners and driveways, ridiculously small lots for oversized houses and some major drainage issues on some parcels made this once-model neighborhood pretty much a local laughingstock. But ownership here included a membership to Daytown Country Club, whose sixth fairway more or less bordered on my back yard.

So who’s laughing now, motherfucker? I thought to myself as I turned up into our short driveway; the view of the spectacular course behind the house always gave me a thrill and was the biggest selling point when Stacy and I downsized after the divorce.

“Go get the mail, will you?” I asked my daughter as we unbuckled.

“Why me?” she pouted as she put away her iPod.

“So I can watch you walk in that pretty dress and expensive shoes that I paid for that you never wear except to dance class. You’ll have to explain that to me sometime,” I said.

“No mystery. Ms. Castle wants us to be presentable in case we have guests,” she said as she swung out of the passenger side. Her sun dress was one of those that flat-chested girls wore with ease, as everything stayed in place. But her long legs, accentuated by her high heels, made a walk to the mailbox look very much like a stroll down a fashion runway.

Stacy retrieved the paper and a few envelopes. One of them clearly got her excited, as she ran back up the driveway a youthful impulse that caused her dress to billow up behind her. Someone passing by would have gotten a clear view of whatever she’d chosen for underwear.

I didn’t just think that, I thought with a momentary wave of nausea.

“There’s one here from Mom!” she said excitedly. It was addressed only to Stacy and the postmark was somewhere in the Caribbean, so that meant I was not allowed to be curious.

“Wait and read it inside, okay?” I said. “I’ve got your bag”

I hefted the thing over my shoulder and the collective weight of her backpack, school clothes and God knows what else made me groan like an old man. She giggled as she practically danced up the steps to the front door.

Pink. She wore pink today.

Yep. Alyssa and I did many things wrong, but we got a few things right. Stacy was clearly one of them.

Chapter 2 »