The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

In the beginning, all power came from words.

Entire realities were created and shaped by words.

Stories were the ultimate power and the Weaver, being keeper of stories, was powerful indeed. Not a god, though that confusion would be understandable, but the first people still told stories as acts of fealty unto him.

Stories of the seasons, so that the seasons would be kind.

Stories of victories, so that their enemies would know defeat.

Stories of love (and lust), because people needed to celebrate their victories somehow.

As words became commonplace, because people started to toss them around without true meaning or intent, stories became common. In turn, the Weaver’s power waned, but never diminished entirely.

“What good are stories?” the Weaver pined, but with a twinkle in his eye and hint of smile on his ancient face.

He knew, one day, perhaps this day, this story would be read.

And on that day, perhaps today, through some small sliver of belief, a fraction of his power would return to him.

All stories start with “What if?” the Weaver’s most powerful tool.

What if, for instance, the Weaver crafted a website where people could change their story, their personal reality and truth, by answering a series of very simple, fill-in-the-blank questions. The Weaver has always been aware that merely shifting a few strings can change an entire pattern.

Elizabeth Bunsen arrives at her dorm room physically and mentally exhausted from a long day of classes. It’s not that she didn’t adore learning, it’s just that Friday’s were always her heavy day, starting at 8am and stretching to 6pm. The only time for herself, beyond shifting from classroom to classroom, was a short lunch break. She built the schedule for her junior year in the hope of graduating early, just like she did high school. She knows she has a weekend to recover, and read, and then she can start the next week fresh.

Her hard work ethic was instilled in her by her single mother. “Work smart, Elizabeth, so you don’t have to work hard like me.” Her mother worked two jobs to keep Elizabeth and her older sister Angelina fed, clothed, and on track to take on the world. Angelina was a Senior at this very college. Elizabeth wanted to lap her and graduate first, but there were only so many hours in the day.

Her phone buzzes with a text from her friend Dan. It reads: You in?

She texts back: Yeah.

A second or so later, her phone rings.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey,” Dan says from the other side of the call. “Can I borrow your brain for like five minutes?”

Dan was always looking for help from Elizabeth. As one of her best and only friends, she was typically up for sharing it. At twenty, he was a year older, but despite being younger, Elizabeth had the better head on her shoulders. Dan did his part to keep her semi-sane by sporadically getting her to let her hair down.

“Sure. What’s up?” Elizabeth asks.

“Sociology experiment. It’s a weird one, but I swear it will be over fast.”

“’Quickly’ would’ve been a better word choice. You sure you don’t need grammar help too?” Elizabeth teases Dan. Just because she helps him all the time, she thinks, doesn’t mean she doesn’t get to have fun periodically at his expense. And, by ‘periodically,’ it generally meant whenever opportunity arose.

“Fast. Quickly. Whatever. Five minutes, Elizabeth. You in or out?” Dan said, rushed.

“How can I help, Dan?” Elizabeth replied calmly, countering his frantic energy.

“I emailed you a link. It will take you to a form. Just answer the questions honestly.”

“What kind of questions?”

“Honestly, they’re more like fill in the blanks. I just need to convince one more person to do it so that I have enough data for the class and you’re my go-to friend.”

“You have other friends?!?”

“None like you, Elizabeth.” The statement sounded resoundingly sincere. It almost got through Elizabeth’s shell. Almost. She feigned flattery, regardless.

“Aw. Consider it done.”

“Call me after?”

“Of course.” Elizabeth says and clicks off the call.

She takes off her sneakers, carefully placing them in their spot in the closet—a place for everything—and pulls her laptop out of her bag. Getting comfortably into a cross-legged sitting position on her bed, she opens her laptop, finds the email from Dan, and clicks the link.

The page loads slowly, her screen flashing in odd color combinations as it does so. She’s about to give up when the first blank fill-in space appears. It’s listed as 1/8.

The childhood nickname I loathed was ____________.

Elizabeth thinks back to childhood with a shudder. She was always the serious child. Sometimes, much more often than she liked, her family didn’t appreciate that. Specifically, though even at six she vehemently and repeatedly protested it, her family called her “Libby.” Her credo on this—and yes, even at the tender age of six, young Elizabeth had a credo—was: Elizabeth’s change the world. Libby’s don’t. Elizabeth wanted to change the world and that’s why, by the time she started kindergarten, she made a concerted effort to ensure everyone referred to her by her full name, teachers and classmates alike. Not Beth. Not Lizzy. And, above all else, never ever Libby.

Elizabeth clenches her jaw, but something compels her to be truthful as she fills in this blank.

The childhood nickname I loathed was Libby.

Elizabeth clicks the advance arrow on the screen.

Libby squints, pulling the sleeves of her university hoodie down so that she can press her fingers into the fabric mid-palm. It’s something she does when anxious or stressed. She remembers that she just answered a question, literally a few seconds ago, but for some peculiar reason, she can’t remember exactly what she answered or even the question itself for that matter. She chalks this up to her long day. She considers this. Maybe this schedule was too much for her. Maybe she was pushing herself too hard. What is the bad side to one more year of college? Nearly everyone takes four years to graduate. Why should she try so hard to be different? The questions, ones Elizabeth Bunsen wouldn’t give the time of day to, do not feel foreign in Libby’s head at all.

She looks down at the screen and her next question, 2/8.

If I could change one physical feature, it would be _____________.

Libby frowns. She exercises, and maintains a healthy diet as well, but certain conditions are simply genetic. Her mom never had an ample bosom, even after having Libby and her sister Angelina, the biggest she got was a B cup. Libby herself never shot past an A cup. It was never “a thing.” Sure, there were times, especially in high school, when Libby would hide her body in baggy clothes. Looking down at the oversized hoodie she wears, she thinks maybe that hasn’t changed all that much. She has a slender frame. This should not upset her. A lot of girls would love to have her metabolism. She wants to be judged purely on a holistic level, taking into consideration her commitment to study and her constant pursuit of knowledge, but there’s no skip button on the page.

Compelled to honesty, she fills in the blank.

If I could change one physical feature, it would be my chest.

Libby adjusts the computer so she can see past “the girls.” They often blocked her view, especially when trying to lay in bed and work on her laptop at the same time. Far too often, people spoke to them instead of her face. It made her self-conscious. Mostly about her face. Even wearing her standard baggy attire didn’t divert attention. This wasn’t limited to her fellow students either. One professor she visited for office hours discussed her paper for fifteen full minutes and yet never made eye contact once. Having natural DD-cup breasts on her tiny body ever since puberty kept things interesting, in the Chinese curse sort of way. “It’s a blessing of genetics,” was the way her mom always described it. Thankfully, since it was genetics, Angelina was equally “blessed.” The three Bunsen girls, mother and two daughters, could always raid each other’s closets in case of a bra emergency, though Libby tended to lean into the more functional, most restrictive ones available.

She wonders why she’s thinking about her breasts now and guesses the fascination and adoration she receives from everyone else on the planet is affecting her thoughts.

Moving on, she looks at the screen and the question 3/8 that awaits her.

You’ll most frequently find me wearing _________.

An easy question. Libby is pretty much synonymous with her hoodie and sweatshirt collection. It’s maybe not effective at drawing attention away from the small country worth of boob adorning her front, but it’s the best solution available.

You’ll most frequently find me wearing anything that covers up my chest.

Libby caught sight of herself in the mirror on her closet door and smiled at a reflection showing off her barely-there dark blue tank top and the mounds it only covered in concept. Her mother instilled certain virtues in Libby once she succumbed to a very mountainous puberty.

Keep them loud and proud.

If you’ve got it, flaunt it.

Libby’s mom said her own breasts opened doors for her. It made absolute sense to Libby. I mean, come on, they were that far in front of her anyway. Libby’s studies kept her in the top of her class, because you couldn’t fake standardized tests, but she never had a lack of study partners vying for time with her and the twins. She liked to drop things and bend over to pick them up. That seemed to keep the study partners ready and willing to keep coming back. It was a win-win situation. For Libby, it was a scholarly pursuit. She gave no thought to what her study partners did immediately following time with her as it was likely dirty, based on the bulges they tended to leave with.

After another long appreciative gaze at herself in the mirror, Libby returned to the question 4/8 on her laptop screen.

I would describe my approach to makeup as _________.

While her breasts were always on display, Libby still wanted to be treated as a strong scientific mind in the making. She didn’t want to flounce about like some random tart and she certainly wouldn’t paint herself up as one. She had a strict beauty regimen of washing and moisturizing, but other than that, and the daily brushing of her hair, her appearance was very much limited to her natural looks.

I would describe my approach to makeup as minimal.

Libby blows herself a kiss in the mirror with her bright cherry red lips. Her lashes extended and curled, her cheeks accented with bright, rosy tint, and her lids emblazoned with dark eye shadow to make her blue eyes pop.

Around the time she developed her chest, Libby knew that if she ever wanted anyone to look her in the face again, it would have to be an attraction all its own. Her mother supported this notion and guided her through her own extensive daily preparations to “put on a face to face the day.” She was the first of her friends to wear makeup, which was fair as she was the first of her friends to go through puberty, too. She was the first in her school to sport earrings and she couldn’t imagine going out into the world without spending a good hour gazing into the mirror and making sure every spot on her face was impeccably embellished and that her hair was purposefully coiffed. Today’s look was a long braid that exposed her neck, the ideal bridge from her daily canvas of a face down into her ample, always on display cleavage.

Giving herself a once over, Libby thinks of herself as the total package—a beautifully put together woman with a genius-level intellect. There are no barriers, glass ceiling or otherwise, that will stop her ascent.

Once she finishes this quiz Dan sent over, that is.

She returns to it and sees the next question, 5/8.

My least favorite word is _______.

Language is important to Libby. She considers herself to be organized in thought, but that won’t serve her well unless the words coming out of her mouth convey those thoughts eloquently and succinctly. Despite her scientific pedigree, she takes additional opt-in classes in English, Composition, and Speech, prepping for the day when she will be on panels at prestigious events and maybe in the not-too-distant future, accepting her first Nobel Prize with poise and grace. The only aspect to language she sees no purpose in is bad language. She cringes at its usage in comedy, movies, and by anyone she crosses paths with. She simply assumes that anyone who would stoop to that sort of language is either uneducated or merely poorly raised.

My least favorite word is swearing.

Fuck, I look good, is the first thought to pass through Libby’s mind when she catches her reflection in the mirror. The second involves how delectable her tits look in her tank top.

She doesn’t know why, but she thinks back to her mom and the guiding force she had on who Libby became.

“Boys are just walking dicks. Don’t let them fuck with your momentum, Libby. You’re going to be a genius fucking world-changing fucking scientist and discover the cure to shit or solve some important shit. Listen to your mother and always use your brains, not your cunt.”

Libby cracks a smile thinking of the little perfectly phrased feminist fucking anthem her mother bestowed on her. Shit, she thinks, I still have three questions to go on this stupid fucking survey… Dan is such a dick.

Annoyed, she looks down at question 6/8

My favorite sex toy is my _________.

Who’s the fucking pervert who wrote this question, Libby thinks. Dan’s sociology professor must be some real motherfucker to ask shit like this.

Tap tap tap.

My favorite sex toy is my n/a

Libby thinks that maybe if she hadn’t stuck the vibrator up her pussy midway through this quiz, she’d already be done and onto the dildo to finish her off. Her collection of sex toys was unparalleled. Really, she had her mother to thank for that. It all stemmed back to her motto of thinking with her brain, not her cunt. To ensure that her brain could remain focused on the important matters, she took care of her pussy daily. Usually more than once. So as to never get bored and stay physically adventurous in her ministrations, she had a cornucopia of tools to work herself to a frenzy. A good cum was usually coupled to a good five or ten seconds of loud ass swearing that would make a sailor blush. Libby had to keep that under control. Some people, uptight fuckwads as she called them, were too prissy to appreciate the message if any questionable words were employed.

She looks to her screen. Question 7/8.

Home fucking stretch.

I lost my virginity at the age of ________.

Some people have more important goals than their next lay, Libby thinks.

Tap tap tap.

I lost my virginity at the age of n/a.

“Boys are just walking dicks.”

Her mother started the birds and the bees speech that was probably the same one she gave her sister Angie who, for the record, went down in college infamy for sucking off the entire men’s volleyball team in one very sloppy sitting. “Let them fuck you, Libby. You’re going to be a genius fucking world-changing fucking scientist and discover the cure to shit or solve some important shit. You deserve some rock star cock for your troubles. Listen to your mother and always use your brains and your cunt. You were born with both.”

This lesson was, of course, on the way home from the doctor with my first set of birth control pills. First came the tits. Then, the face. Then, the little pills I’ve taken daily to avoid any roadblocks on my path to science super-fucking-stardom. And all the super fucking along the way. All the project partners. All the study buddies who got a chubby while I flaunted my tits for them. It would’ve been impolite to just leave that dick there, hard and unused. So I used it. I used my mouth on it. I used my pussy on it. Sometimes, I just fashioned a pillowy crevice between my tits and went to town, taking a shot of cum to my chin for my efforts.

I’m juicy just thinking of it.

One more question and I’ll pound myself to a fierce orgasm with my big black monster dildo.

8/8

I best describe Dan as my ___________.

Libby doesn’t have to think much about this one.

Tap tap tap tap tap tap.

I best describe Dan as my friend.

Dan heard about the Weaver website from a friend of a friend. It was that kind of backchannel, dark web type thing that typically turned out to be a whole lot of nothing. The topper of the story—the site, this simple website that anyone could accidentally stumble upon, would change the reality of the person and the only one who would know any of it occurred is the person who sent them a link. For everyone else, all the changes weren’t changes—they were just how the person had always been.

It seemed like a bunch of hokum.

But Dan was a man in love.

He loved Elizabeth from first meeting.

And she loved him, too, but her singular focus on studies kept them apart.

So he crafted this particular set of questions instead of trusting the site’s randomizer option to achieve the perfect result.

The perfect result that was currently bouncing up and down on his dick.

Big tits quaking with every movement.

A perfectly done up face despite the sweaty mess they were both becoming.

And the words…

“Fuck me, you fucking stud.”

It was the swearing that always put him over the edge. The raunchy words coming out of her angelic mouth.

“I love you, Libby.”

“How about you put that mouth to good use and lick my pussy and clit?”

All of this and a Nobel prize mind.

Libby was now the total package.