The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

He hadn’t always been MilkMan, and she hadn’t always been Lactatia, although the lives they once had, mere weeks ago, felt as though strangers had lived them.

MilkMan’s hands were wrapped around her throat, squeezing Lactatia’s windpipe as she squeezed his enormous cock between her mountainous tits. Their laptop was to her left, the webcam’s unblinking cyclops eye gazing at the rutting couple. She glanced over at the screen. Men were staring into their webcams, their mouths open, their eyes wide and blank, their upper arms and shoulders shaking as they mindlessly jerked off to the spectacle unfolding before them.

Some distant part of Lactatia’s mind, the small part that remained Ursula, felt sorry for them, knowing that they were victims like her and Rudolfo. These men had also been compelled by the website to forsake their lives. Their girlfriends, their wives, their friends and family, their jobs, all dispensed with. All that remained for them was jerking, jerking and cumming, so much cumming, cumming away all their time and money. But the rest of her, the vast part of her that had become Lactatia, licked her lips at the helpless men and grinned.

It had all started with good intentions. Ursula had been an activist fighting for LGBTQIA2s+ rights, herself personally identifying as an NB from the L part of the acronym. She had just decided to take up a rigorous vegan diet as a revolutionary act of resistance against the toxic patriarchal and speciesist capitalist system of oppression and urgently needed a battery of vitamins and other supplements to bridge her over until she could learn all the right recipes. She was messaging her fellow activists for suggestions when Rudolfo, an NB from the T part of the acronym, suggested a website called “Whoropticon”.

At first, Ursula thought her colleague was joking.

“No, I’m for real, it’s an amazing website,” he explained. “I’ve been getting my HRT meds from it.”

“WTF is with the name?” Ursula angrily typed.

“It’s reclaiming ‘whore’, sister!” her colleague replied. “Don’t tell me you of all people are into slut shaming.”

Shocked and ashamed of herself, Ursula immediately visited the website, and sure enough, it seemed pretty innocuous, almost too innocuous. It was just a store, full of supplements and sex toys, and funnily, the occasional power tool set. There was also a community tab that led to some kind of subscription-based video chat service. How was any of this revolutionary?

She pushed on, digging into the supplements section. As she did, she messaged Rudolfo again, asking for any suggestions for what to buy.

“Online I’ve seen some faabs ranting about one called ‘Blooming Balance’, so maybe check that one out,” they answered.

Ursula scrolled through the menu, noticing all the brand names—a product for maabs called “Primal Power Blend” leapt out at her—until she found Blossom Balance. It was only a few dollars. Incredulous, she tried to find out more about the product information but found nothing. All the customer reviews on the website itself were rave, so she looked around on some online forums. They, too, talked about how amazing the supplement was. “I feel like a whole new person,” one customer wrote.

Still, she felt unsure.

“I dunno,” she typed to Rudolfo. “How long have you been using the stuff you bought?”

“Only a week.”

Ursula rolled her eyes. “Seriously? That’s not exactly a lifetime customer kind of guarantee.”

“First the slut shaming, now this shit about being a customer?! What gives?”

“I’m just saying a week’s not long to be recommending shit.”

“Fine,” Rudolfo wrote. There was a pause, then they wrote, “All I can say is that since I started taking them, I feel like a whole new person.”

With a sigh, Ursula thought to herself, well, what harm could it possibly do? And she ordered the supplement.

The package arrived the very next day. The jar was small and, like the website itself, innocuous. The pills were equally nondescript, simple white capsules. Ursula swallowed one, washing it down with a swig of water. It tasted salty.

A week had passed, and Ursula felt fantastic. Her energy was limitless, even as her appetite had disappeared. She worked double shifts at a thrift store, and although in the past she would usually faceplant into her bed when she came home, she was now up all night talking with other activists about a new idea of hers: producing t-shirts for faabs with the slogan, “These tits are a person.”

The slogan was provocative, but also memorable, which was her point. Not everyone in the community liked the idea, but Rudolfo backed her up.

“I think it’s smart and subversive,” he enthusiastically wrote in her defense during a live online chat with the other activists.

“Thank you!” she replied.

“What else you got?” Rudolfo responded with a beaming emoji. “Give me more!”

Laughing to herself, Ursula wrote back, “I’ve given you everything I got!”

It was the start of the second week when she noticed her breasts. That is, she noticed that they had grown. And they had grown fast. Although she rejected the bras and the whole letter system as just another method of capitalist exploitation, she didn’t have an alternative reference point. So, she tried to put on an old pair of A-cups that she hadn’t gotten around to trashing. They didn’t fit. Had she grown to a B-cup in just a week?

Panicked, she immediately messaged Rudolfo.

“It’s normal sister,” he wrote back. “I’m also growing.”

“Where?” she asked.

“Where do you think?”

She caught her own stupidity and giggled.

“Isn’t that super fast?” she typed.

“I guess so, haven’t really thought about it. I’m just happy to be becoming the person I was meant to be.”

Ursula was about to reply when she stopped. She had bought these to be a dietary supplement, not to mess around with her hormones.

She wrote this to Rudolfo, who promptly responded, “I dunno, it’s all kind of the same shit, isn’t it?”

That didn’t seem right to her, but for some reason Ursula didn’t feel nervous about it.

Another week passed, and it seemed another cup size. Ursula guessed that she was probably around a C. She was chatting with Rudolfo on a regular basis and decided to share the news with him by sending him a selfie with her bare breasts. When she saw the little check marks turning blue, meaning he had seen the photograph, she was suddenly mortified. Why had she done that?

Rudolfo replied with a photograph of his own: his penis. It was flaccid, but easily two inches long, and she could also make out his scrotum, which she thought was none too shabby either. For a trans male who just a few weeks before had been faab, the change was definitely impressive.

“You must be really proud of it,” she wrote.

“Actually, I’ve been showing it off,” he replied.

Her eyes widened. “What? That’s crazy! Why would you do that? Where are you doing it?”

“That’s a lot of questions from a slut shaming prude,” he wrote back. “Whoropticon’s got a community section, that’s where.”

“Wait a sec,” she wrote, and hurriedly went to the website, clicked on its community tab and signed up. She was surprised membership was free, as apparently users had to pay for the video chats themselves. However, she immediately understood why once she was in: they were all webcam sex shows.

She was about to write “WTF?” to Rudolfo when she thought better of it. Instead, she wrote, “Any chance you’re on right now?”

“As a matter of fact, I am. I’m not that popular, so you need to scroll down to find me.” He paused. “But you might not recognize me at first.”

Rudolfo hadn’t been kidding. They had met a few times in person at activist meetings. Back then, when he was a she, they had a very slight build. Now it seemed as though he had been working out. He wasn’t jacked, but he was definitely muscular. And there was stubble around his lips and chin.

A little audience ticker in the upper righthand corner of the webpage showed that Ursula was now one of twenty people watching Rudolfo standing completely nude in front of the camera. He was grinning and slowly stroking his erect new cock. She leaned forward, trying to guess its length and girth. She figured it was six inches long, almost an inch around.

There was a chatbox below the video. People were paying Rudolfo to jerk off, and every time they sent some money, the sound of coins chimed.

Ursula suddenly felt self-conscious. What was she doing? She was staring at her fellow activist, examining him like he was a piece of meat, objectifying him just like all these other assholes.

Feeling disgusted, she was about to pull away when a message appeared. It was from username Whoropticon—the website itself? Weirder still, the message seemingly directed at Ursula.

“Rudolfo’s reclaiming his body from capitalist oppression,” it wrote. “And you should, too.”

Something began to tug in the back of her head. Without thinking, Ursula clicked on a tab marked “$” and entered her credit card information. Then she pulled her shirt off.

She returned to Rudolfo’s show. He was staring at his camera, but no longer grinning. She clicked the option for a private show. It was a dollar a minute, kind of expensive she thought vaguely.

Just then there was a popup window. It was some kind of captcha. “Are you female?” it asked. She clicked yes.

A new popup informed her that women could have private shows for free. Was she a woman?

She clicked yes again, and a moment later, she and Rudolfo were alone with each other. Her webcam switched on, revealing her swelling tits to him. He stared blankly at them. His fist, still wrapped around his hard rod, squeezed tighter, and without a word, he began to pump himself faster.

A third week of taking the supplements came and went. Ursula’s tits had swollen to D cups, and not only that. Her shirt started getting damp where her nipples met the fabric, and soon to her surprise milk began to flow, getting more and more copious with each passing day.

She visited Rudolfo online every night, and together they would virtually pleasure each other. And like her tits, his cock had also grown. His scrotum had also gotten full, exploding white cum all over his hands as he gawked at her chest.

One day, just after Ursula returned from work, someone knocked at her apartment door. When she opened it, none other than Rudolfo was standing there. It felt unreal finally being physically near him, the femininity completely now replaced with a buzz cut haircut, thick muscles, and a short-cropped beard. He was also taller than she remembered, much taller, standing maybe a foot and a half or more above her.

“Surprise!” he said with a toothy grin. “I figured maybe it would be cool to actually meet up in person.”

“Did I give you my address?” she blurted out.

“Ah, er, no…”

“How did you get it?”

He rubbed his head. “This is gonna sound strange, but the website did.”

“What?”

Ursula suddenly felt dizzy and leaned against the doorframe. Her breasts jiggled as she moved, catching Rudolfo’s eyes, which plummeted to them like two meteorites plummeting to earth.

“You know what? Maybe this wasn’t such a hot idea after all,” he said, trying to pull his gaze from the enormous mounds stretching her t-shirt.

“No, it’s fine…” she heard herself saying. She noticed his stare and started to feel less dizzy. An idea crept into her mind. “Actually, I’m glad you’re here.”

She reached out and took his hands, guiding them to her breasts. Snapping out of his own reverie, Rudolfo looked around the stairway. Seeing that no one else was alone, he moved closer to her and sank his hands into her tit flesh.

Only a minute went by, but it seemed like an eternity for both of them. Ursula purred, enjoying the feeling of Rudolfo softly pawing her tits.

Something felt moist under his palms. Confused, Rudolfo moved his hands away for a moment, and his eyes turned into saucers: she was lactating!

Something tugged in the back of Ursula’s head and without thinking she pulled off her shirt, revealing her two immense round orbs. Although Rudolfo had seen them many times now, it had always been through a screen. Now beholding her breasts directly, he froze.

“Are you just going to stare?” she asked softly.

Rudolfo didn’t need to be asked twice. He bent down, pressed his lips to one her nipples, and began to suck. Ursula let out a soft moan and her hips bucked involuntarily.

Eventually, he slowly pulled away from her, his lips smeared with her milk. Ursula looked into his eyes and saw that something was wrong. His pupils were dilated.

“More,” he whispered hoarsely. “Give me more.”

And with that, he leaned in once again, his lips finding her other breast. Ursula let out a soft cry of pleasure as he renewed his suckling, her body arching into his touch.

Her mind felt fuzzy, her senses heightened. She couldn’t quite focus on anything except the feel of Rudolfo’s lips and tongue on her breasts. She moaned again and writhed beneath him, her hips bucking as she tried to get closer.

Just then, an entirely new sensation welled up within her. She felt her breasts quickly becoming heavier and fuller with fresh milk, the pressure rapidly building inside them. But she was beyond all understanding.

He suckled greedily, his hands gripping her hips, holding her in place. She could feel his arousal pressing against her thigh, and she knew he wanted more. She reached down and rubbed his erection through his pants, eliciting a mindless growl from him as he continued to drink.

Her breasts felt impossibly full, stretched to their limits by the weight of the seemingly infinite milk. She arched her back, offering him more access as she moaned loudly into the empty stairwell.

Rudolfo growled again in response, sucking harder on her nipple. He began to grind his crotch against her hand as it rubbed him faster.

It wasn’t long before he was groaning, his body violently seizing up as he came in his pants. She felt a warm wetness form in the fabric around his crotch as his balls released what doubtlessly must have been a copious amount of cum.

When he finally ceased shuddering, he pulled his lips away from her nipple and sagged against her, breathing heavily. Ursula gently petted his head and whispered in his ear, “You should come inside.”

Several more weeks passed. Rudolfo was living with Ursula now, although to call it “living” was a stretch. The sheer amount of fucking they did could not under normal circumstances be considered living. The apartment had descended into utter ruin, everything covered in dried cum and breast milk stains.

Rudolfo no longer ate solids; all he consumed was Ursula’s milk. Likewise, all she consumed was his cum. There was certainly enough of both to go around. Her tits had finally maxed out at K-cup, while his cock had grown to nine inches and his balls had inflated to a size that made it difficult for him to wear most pants, not that he was doing much of that anymore.

Ursula had quit working at the thrift store, and Rudolfo had also left his job, for he had found a new occupation: titfucking her to a live audience on Whoropticon, titfucking her hard and rough, until he would erupt a torrent of jizz onto her chest, like a geyser erupting hot sex up through a canyon of soft flesh.

They had ceased to be Rudolfo and Ursula. They were now MilkMan and Lactatia, and in no time at all, their performances had become legendary, their fans rabid and dedicated. Men would log on for hours, helplessly jerking off as they watched MilkMan devour Lactatia’s milk and ravish her chest, pumping themselves until they emptied their wallets completely, pouring all of their money deep into the vortex of the website.

Periodically throughout every show, Lactatia would turn her head to face the camera. As though something were acting through her, she would lick her lips and grin, then whisper things to their viewers, terrible things. “Never stop, always watch,” “Your family doesn’t matter,” and, “Spend your money, all of it.”

Most of all, she would whisper to them get other men to watch the webcam show. Their friends, their colleagues, even their own sons.

Sure enough, soon all sorts of men were watching. Even gay couples had been drawn into the vortex, forsaking each other for the Charybdis of cock and tit swirling on their screens.

If a woman found out, say, that her husband or son was watching, the men would make sure to direct their attention to the show’s chatbox. The username Whoropticon would then appear and suggest that if they really wanted their loved ones to stop watching this disgusting spectacle, they just needed to go to the supplements section of the website and order something called Blooming Balance. And invariably the promise would prove true, for it would not take long before their husband or son was addicted to their milk and thrusting their cocks between their inflated tits, their minds utterly lost.

As for the former Ursula and Rudolfo, as their audience grew, their performances also grew more extreme, with MilkMan choking Lactatia as he slammed his cock through her deep cleavage. He would only relax his grip when her eyes drifted and her hands began to fall away from her tits, at which point he would revive her with a sharp slap to the face, muttering as he did so, “More.” His voice flat, eyes blank, lips glistening with milk. “Give me more.”

“Everything! I’ll give you everything!” she would cry out in reply, her hips bucking without her control, her back arching even further to help his cock slide in and out of her breasts. “I’m just a pair of tits!”