The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The day was, for the first time in what felt like months, a productive one. Owen’s physical energy seemed to be feeding off of some unaccounted for spark of mental energy—he had spent the morning tidying up little messes that he’d allowed to accumulate throughout the week (making the bed without being asked!) and found himself with a near-spotless living space by noon. He hadn’t been seeking this newfound optimism, and he wasn’t sure where it had sprung from, but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth!

Running around all morning, his legs and arms guiding his actions more than his conscious mind, Owen hadn’t even realized what an appetite had been building up until that moment he set the kitchen broom back in its corner and sat down back in his spot at the island. His stomach groaned with animal urgency—he looked to the fridge and found he had risen to his feet. He swore he could almost smell those veggies in the crisper, even behind its stainless steel door.

Janet was used to being productive. Productivity was her bread and butter, and her baseline pulled in a salary which reflected this work-ethic. But this feeling, creeping down her chest with every breath, was a new one. Upon arriving at work, it certainly drove her to working hard—she’d blown through close to forty emails in her first hour—but by noon it had built into something more demanding.

She had read somewhere—she forgot where—that the ancient practice of fasting helped monks and eccentric religious figures on their vision-quests; helped them expand their senses to include experiences that the average, regularly eating, individual had walled himself away from. Was this such a sensory expansion, performed by mistake? Despite having eaten her regular breakfast, kissing Owen goodbye less than three hours previous, Janet had never felt so hungry. Consequently, this urgency growing in her veins had expanded her senses, some. She could feel tickles and itches and passing warmths that would normally rise and fall unnoticed. It was the strangest thing, and brought a flush to her cheeks.

“Blood sugar,” she muttered to herself, snapping open her tupperware and wolfing down its contents. There was nowhere near enough here to make this feeling go away.

By 1:00PM, Owen had eaten every scrap of food in the crisper. He didn’t even know that was possible, but he didn’t consider it much. That was probably more than a dozen carrots, four whole turnips, an unopened package of bean-sprouts (Janet will be mad about that one, he thought), and half a bunch of celery. Scraps littered the table—stems, leaves, and various less-edibles. Sated, he thought at last, for the time being.

Without cleaning up those scraps on the table, he rose and made his way to the laptop he’d left on his nightstand. His morning spent active, tidying, vacuuming, cleaning, had given rise to a gradual rekindling of his baser attributes. What he thought had been a belated quarter hour of sun-rise arousal had extended into an entire morning spent at half-mast. His cock, these days perpetually flaccid, had been positively slapping against his thighs as he swept the kitchen. On his way to the bedroom to collect his computer, he now took in his full-on erection, aware of the fabric which made up is pajama pants in ways he’d never noticed before. Reaching his destination, though, Owen’s stomach twisted once more. Not hungry—not yet—but already peckish.

He returned to the kitchen, set his laptop on the counter (fully intending to search for jobs, keep the productivity train rolling), and began searching through the pantry for something to eat.

When he heard keys jingling at the front door, he had just swallowed the last bite of molasses spread thick across toast—his second such slice. “Hey honey!” he called, pulling up his trousers, closing the twenty-something porn tabs (some of them still playing audio) in a mad dash. “It’s only 2:00, are you not well?”

Janet came around the corner, and Owen’s breath caught in his throat. Her wild look told him she wasn’t sick—quite the contrary—but something was seriously up. She stared silently, slowly pulling her bottom lip between her teeth.

“Honey, you okay?” Owen was sitting at the island, still, hoping his wife wouldn’t notice his hot, still-throbbing erection when he inevitably had to stand.

Without speaking a word, his wife undid the top button on her blouse. Her pants were already hanging open, unzipped (she couldn’t help herself on the drive home). She must have discarded their matching blazer in the space between the foyer and the kitchen). She pulled her top over her head, and in an uninterrupted motion, tore her dress pants down to her ankles.

Owen stared wide-eyed at the obscene wet patch smeared up her purple panties. He could smell their musk across the room.

She breathed. “Fuck. Me. Now.”

For the first time in months, Owen knew he was up to the task. For the first time since he was a teenager, though, he worried that he couldn’t make it as far as penetration before blowing load. But that concern was deep in the back of his mind?—once that humid smell rose through the nose, filled up his lungs, Owen was operating on near-pure animal need. He rose from his seat, exposing a pair of pajama pants damp with pre-cum, and discarded them clumsily in the three wide strides to his bra-and-pantied wife. His cock bulged a deep red, its pulsing glans purple.

“Oh sweetie,” Janet whispered, reaching down to pet his member, “is that for me?”

Owen grimaced at her touch, his eyes swallowing up her generous bosom, confined by a conservative lavender brassier. She reached down and squeezed his balls, unexpectedly aggressive.

“Hurghk!” The gesture squashed three hydraulic loads from Owen’s desperate member, splat splat splat on Janet’s stomach, the lace hem of her purple panties.

She raised an eyebrow, playfully embarrassed by her premature husband and somehow intuiting, from the smell in the air, that their encounter was nowhere near complete. He was breathing heavy, cock still pulsing out its last drippings around her thumb?—somehow harder than before. His eyes widened as she slowly, sensually, leaned over?—not once breaking eye contact?—and slid her panties down her glossy wet thighs. She stepped an inch to the side, and brought them up to their fascinated eyes.

Slack-jawed, Owen could see their juices mingling?—running off the fabric and down her fingers. Was he imagining that steam rising? Heat seemed to radiate from between her legs?—he could feel it like a woodstove next to his poor, pleading knob.

She bundled up the soiled underwear and stuffed them in her husband’s mouth. “Did I tell you to fucking cum?” She slapped his cock down harder than warranted, and he howled in unfamiliar pleasure. “I said fuck me, you stupid ass!”

The man looked down, past his wife’s breasts, to where his cum still dripped down her stomach and toward her swollen mons. Something took over.