The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Look, I mean—you know how much I wanted to go to that Thai retrospective.” Danielle folded her arms and snapped her snowy peacoat shut, grimacing.

He promised her an unforgettable night, but hadn’t planned for it whatsoever. “How many hints did I give you all throughout January, hmm?”

She grabbed Charlie, her already simpering boyfriend, by his cheeks, pushing them together brusquely, in her usual way of babying him.

“But that was yesterday!” he managed. Halfway through saying it, he realized how dumb it was to use that as a defense, and winced.

“Wasn’t it?” An unfortunate, further case of verbal diarrhea made him gulp. He even held his hand up over his face. It was meant to be a cute gesture, but it had incidentally proved to be useful.

Bitchy and slave-driving on good days, Danielle was clearly teetering between agitation and anger at this point. His woman put her own raised hand down and began wrapping herself up in a big scarf.

“Exactly,” she smirked, icy. Then she repeated it and tossed him a look that said, “You’re just lucky that I spared you.” He nodded, frustrated. Too frustrated to think twice about how ridiculous it was that he always accepted her abuse.

“Well?” Danielle tersely demanded. When she saw that her boyfriend was starting to cry, she buried her chin deep into her scarf, so that he wouldn’t see her smile. In front of everyone at the cafe, he sheepishly pulled her big winter hat on for her. Some girl went “awww.” A couple dudes laughed.

“Well...” he sputtered, never having an intended sentence or idea in mind. Just all-encompassing psychosexual fear. It figured. Pay one single compliment to her lean yet curvaceous body, and lose any and all sex priveleges for three whole weeks now. He didn’t care, though. He couldn’t resist her. He loved her.

She sneered. It wasn’t quite cold enough outside to wear gloves, yet she put some on anyway. Like every night they spent together lately, it seemed to be wholly comprised of her covering up whatever bits of skin that still showed even slightly.

If he could make out the pert butt that he so cherished, underneath the lengthy tail of her coat as it was, all he’d think to do was look away just as soon as he saw it.

Self-conscious beyond reason, Danielle’s poor sense of confidence took a major hit after starting at her new job. It didn’t stem from anything pertinent to issues with her own appearance, but it certainly manifested itself that way.

Being intimidated by more seasoned employees, she’d kick her legs on their bed upon returning home, glance down in pity at her taut, washboard abs, and wail things like, “I’m so faaaaat!”

No matter how much he said he loved her perfectly fit physique, and no matter how much he meant it, she translated his interest as something that didn’t quite fit with her poor body image.

She could sniff out Charlie’s boners before he even had them. “No!” she’d warn him, right as the first pulses of blood would hit his dick.

He hadn’t, in days and days, the pleasure of gazing upon all his favorite parts of her. Spanking it to covert snapshots he’d taken of her, ones that would certainly end the relationship if she knew about them (potentially earn him a black eye, too), just wasn’t doing it anymore.

The intrigue of the woman he’d met in earliest parts of summer was briskly snuffed out by fall.

The thong she wore in his favorite, choicest private pic had long since been discarded. Two months in, and she equipped her underwear drawers with nothing but plain all-purpose whites.

It wasn’t so bad. Her athletic ass and teardrop breasts managed to look perfectly fine in most of them, and he could pretty much always see her nipples.

He took this wardrobe change as a warning, nevertheless. A symbolic way for her to say, ”We don’t live together. You live with me.” At least she was gracious enough to allow his unnecessarily huge DVD collection.

And at least she’d kept one of her pairs of hot pants. Not like he was holding out much hope that he’d even see those again NEXT summer.

Charlie looked at the areas of his girlfriend’s face that were still exposed. “You’re pathetic,” she informed him. Medicated balm soon slathered over her lips, he resigned himself to a certain fate. A kiss was not in his future. At least she spared him another bitch trip to the counter, though, to return her partially-eaten stuff and get different items, free of charge.

“Let’s get out of here, sweetheart,” she fake-cooed. She’d ordered a piece of cheesecake and a white mocha, but had barely touched either of them. Before that, it was an iced chai and a red velvet cupcake. What remained of her current order was essentially enough for the establishment to re-sell without much notice.

In a show of her usual cattiness, Danielle had raised her voice at the cafe staff, all the way from her table. “They” were apparently underqualified to be baristas and slung “shit-turds” instead of coffee, “and not even shitty coffee!” Her shrill complaints made a group of young girls leave, made a baby cry.

“I love you, y’know?” Charlie sweetly said as he escorted his girl out of the place and back into the frigid February night. He knew she was having a rough time of it lately, and so he’d made it his priority to serve her. “I love you.” He placed the palm of his hand atop her back and slowly rubbed the chilly wool of her coat, reassuring.

“Look, just shut the fuck up, okay?!” she snapped. “We’ll just go to Moving Scene and see what they’re screening tonight. Their website’s down for some reason, otherwise you know I’d know. Good thing it’s only four blocks away from this bedpan you call a coffeeshop!” He bit his tongue instead of reminding her she’d wanted to try the place out ever since she read a review.

“I insist we go dutch,” Danielle continued, in a calculated manner that implied “no sex tonight.” “You’ve got your member card, right, sweetie?” Charlie nodded, eager to please. “Ooooh!” she squealed, mocking him. “Who’s my bestest-westest boy-toy, hm? Is it Charlie-warlie! Why yes, I think it is!”

She grabbed him by the hand and yanked him down the city street by the wrist. He whimpered at her careless force. She chuckled at his pathetic pain threshold. “Happy Valentine’s, pretty lady!” growled a passing vagrant. Her toy-friend turned around to look, so she pulled on his ear for him to better focus.

“Ow! Whadja do that ff—” he shouted, but instead of letting himself get angry, he simply made sure to walk in even paces and keep up with her, managing to clutch her hand in the process, with a firmer grasp than she’d employed. “I just wanted to see if I had any competition, that’s all.” He stuck his tongue out.

Danielle eased up, just the tiniest amount for Charlie to notice. She let her boyfriend hold her hand. “You’re so cute when you try,” she deadpanned. “But little master Charles, to be honest... The way tonight’s going, I probably would leave your bony ass, and for nothing more than that old guy’s putrid disgusting beard, too!“

They argued for the millionth time while waiting at the ticket counter. “No,” she scowled. “You’re twisting my words again. I said, ‘am I really such a pretty lady?’ That was it! And you’re just on some lame shit about some shitty actress!” She put a fresh layer of her awful-smelling lip stuff on, sucked at her teeth, and rolled her eyes, beyond pissed.

Danielle reluctantly began to unbutton her black coat, wiping at her face. The heat in the foyer was blasting obnoxiously as they passed the five-minute mark of waiting for anybody at all to come to the desk. It was annoying; it made fighting over compliments seem like a winning idea.

She pounded the bell impatiently. Didn’t Marcy, or Marla, or someone—didn’t that nice nerdy girl with the butch hairstyle work tickets on Monday nights? She was about to ask her boyfriend, but one look at him made all of her misplaced frustrations bubble right back up. He was an idiot!

Charlie arched his back, pretending to unkink some make-believe muscle. “No, come on!” Danielle was handily reminded that they’d been duking it out. “All I did was—I asked you not to take it so personally if I agree with your brother, or your co-workers—or whoever—that you do kind of look like Jennifer Garner. Why is that so bad!“

“Seriously, guy, she’s not pretty. Because she’s really more plain than attractive, and well, I guess—so am I! Plus... she sucks. She sucks balls. She ruined ‘Juno’ before the screenplay could even get a chance!” She grinned, and Charlie even chuckled, but the only other audience for her wisecrack was the popping of a couple old battered radiators.

“Where is everybody? Usually this theater’s packed, and you’d figure, Valentine’s Day and all...” Charlie pouted, despairing to the point of tuning her out. He appraised her while she was idly staring at a mostly blank marquee. Okay, so she wasn’t hot hot, but—she was undeniably cute, especially whenever she dared to smile. She had perfect teeth, to boot.

She was easily the best-looking girl he’d ever dated. And... she did kinda-sorta look like Jennifer Garner. Danielle’s hair was definitely more stylish, though, darker, and she had a habit of letting her eyebrows run bushy and a bit ragged. Otherwise, the cheekbones, the dimples... she had slimmer lips than the actress, and maybe slightly bigger boobs, but in a certain light, the resemblance could be uncanny.

The ice queen tapped her feet. “Whatever, boy-babe. You look like Jon...uh...than? Suh-wuhhh...” She flicked some more sweat off her forehead. “Ugh, I mean, whoever—gah, whoever that stupid-ass... stupid little... silly-ass dumb-dumb is—y’know, like, from—“

Jaw uncharacteristically hanging and idling now, she played that it was her intent to reach her chin all along, to scratch it... not to hurriedly clamp it shut, because the regular way of doing it simply would not work... “...ooh! ‘Johnny Maguire’!” Danielle flashed a big smile, grinning and gleaming from ear to ear. Her cheeks were pink from the stiflingly hot room.

Was she starting to... drool? “Eeeee!” she squealed. Charlie had never heard a sound like that leave his girlfriend’s mouth. Joy and jubilation always took their considerable distances from her. “That’s um... like... that’s uh-name uh-the movie an’ stuff, right? ‘Johnny Maguire’? ...or was it, mmmmmaybe it was sutt’n else like, hm...“

“...Jimmy or some shit?” He caught her twirling her hair, sincerely unsure as she was. “Nah... nuh-uh... mmmm, who gives a fuck, right?” She hoovered a glob of spit from the edge of her lower lip, sucking it up before it could make its break down and off her jaw. A new tendril of saliva took its place immediately and went unattended.

Danielle just gabbed right through with her leaky mouth. “Uh-sides, that movie, like, totally sucked, like, I swear—for realsies! It totally sucked total shit! They ain’t even show, like, Reese Witherspoon suckin’ on any-uh that there yummy Cruise-y cock, neither!“

“Big pile-uh suck all ‘round, nahmean? S—U—K!” Charlie laughed. He tried to stop before she caught on that he was thoroughly enjoying her conflation of Reese Witherspoon and Renee Zell... whoever the right one was! He grabbed his crotch to readjust. So hot and sweaty... She noticed he was rock hard before he did. Neither of them noticed she’d spelled the word “suck” wrong.

Both of them wanted her to do just that, though. She drew a wandering and carefree hand back, dangerously close to grabbing for his dick through his jeans. “Or no,” she began, as if reading his mind. She licked her lips and abandoned the allure of stuffing her boyfriend’s cock down her throat, pushed that craven desire aside, to make room for some actress and her stupid sexy face.

Why did she need to suck him off all of a sudden? Wasn’t she really mad at him? “I’m so... I’m feelin’ all... what’s the word—stupey, kay? So just—listen, jus’ berry with me... kay, hon?” As an aside, she tongued his neck and hotly whispered into his ear, “I’m, like, soooo gosh-dang-it wet right now, my big hunky Charlie-warlie.“

He didn’t seem to care that his girl was starting to sound like a big redneck airhead out of absolutely nowhere. His cock was starting to parse all his sentence cognition. It was able to determine that the more mess-ups she made,

On Danielle’s end, thinking about a popular romcom was evidently overclocking her brain and setting it on fire. She huffed and panted, hot and hot and... “So. Okay. Okay, so... like, not that Reese-y’s Wetty-poons... that other blondie-girl lady, the one what’s from ‘at ‘Mr. Jones-es-izz Diary Book’, with the fancy, like, accenty thangs an’ all.“

She sucked on her lollipop. Hard. Making sure to form a tight seal around the circular indentation around the top of the candy, and to roll her tongue around the .

She didn’t think twice about being magically imbued with the ins and outs of the Cowboy Cockpop. It simply didn’t feel like it was new information at all. Though bitch of the product was really all those thick veins all around the thing. They were way cool, sure but they just reminded her of sweet, sweet cock.

“I don’t even care what Mr. Jones thingy is. Got it!?” She poked him on the chest in an effort to act like her normal, tough self, But you’re my little Johnny McSomethin’ boy, aintcha, boy?“

Charlie knew that he totally didn’t look like the kid from that movie in the slightest, but she’d brought it up before, had even talked about it earlier on that very same day. But his girlfriend was Danielle McCreedy. The Danielle McCreedy. Columnist-slash-blogger-of-some-renown extraordinaire.

If her high school had given two shits about her, she might have won “Most Likely To Get Published in the New Yorker.” But they didn’t. Charlie gave a shit, and it was Charlie and Charlie only, that really did all the loving in the relationship. He knew he could withstand much worse

The two of them really were in an awful place, though. It was infuriatingly poetic that when the weather changed, so did she.

Which was why it was surprising that his film scholar girlfriend was suddenly at a loss for the most trivial details of a blockbuster movie. What turned such a feeling into a gulping kind of dread was the fact that he, too, was having trouble keeping up, mixing up names in his head.

“Fertile Flashjobs in Our Family Way” February 15, 2010

Suit No. 1 was emphatic and on the verge of losing his cool. He wiped his forehead maniacally. It was dry as a bone. “If you don’t believe me, take a look for your own self.” He flipped open to an earmarked page in some Rolling Stone issue and threw it at Suit No. 2.

He loosened his tie, poured out a teaspoon of bourbon onto the shag rug of the Brittany-Blimpie blimp.

Suit No. 2 was busy... elsewhere. “I bet we could make a fortune.”

Suit No. 1 flicked on a TV. Some news network. After the last few seconds of a fluff piece on a pinebox derby, a “BREAKING NEWS” interstitial crashed on.

An incredibly nervous and despairing newscaster wastes no time in racheting up the heart-exploding terror: “It sounds like the plot of some Russ Meyer movie for Republicans, but it’s all true, yes—every last word of it—and your sons and daughters could be at rrrisk!“

Suit no. 2 tore into a power Red Bull, gulping it all down seemingly in one go. “Okay, okay. I get it. What we wanted to not get out of hand, ever if we could help it, is now getting out of hand a whole fifteen fuckin’ years earlier than our most generous predictions!“

“Better quarantine that girlfriend of yours,” warned Suit no. 1, laughing. “Estimates indicate that every last woman in the continental U.S. is gonna be a corn teen now.”

“Are you crazy? Canada’s been fully bimboized for four years now!“

Danielle and Charlie were coming down from a delicious and intense fuck session. “Did I really scream, ‘Breed me!?’” she asked, panting and laughing.

She reached over to the BreadCorn on the endtable as she wheezed and crashed into a fetal position. She kicked her legs and munched, sliding her foofy little pink socks off her feet and onto her big new butt.

“No way!” she smacked, through a heaping mouthful of the cinema’s concession. It was really yummy to snack on, but it could be weirdly substantial...

Weird! He flicked at her nipple, horny, snarling.

He sidled up to her huddled frame, kissed her on the cheek and proceeded to roll her onto her thick new back. It glistened, tan. New.

The ice queen , sweating quarts of it. Her sweat had a pink hue now.

“Hang on jizzuh... —ssslurrp— jus’ sssecond, baby,” she husked, “I gotta at least think about gettin’ ready for work if I’m—” She tried to climb off his dick out but he was holding her by the shoulders, really pushing for a third go at it. Despite how annoyingly insistent he was acting, it was charming that he didn’t know what the fuck was going on either.

Still... No. Absolutely not. She was not going to let herself acquiesce. “Y’know what—I don’t know who you think you are, but if you think you can just have your way with me over and over again just because I want your cock, like, so fuckin’ bad, you’ve got some serious screws—” He thrusted up and rocketed his rod to the hilt of his woman.

He owned her. She let herself fall. She loved the taste and feel of being light and easy. Her eyes rolled into the back of her brains and she looked like she was attempting to sneeze out a moan. Then she whimpered and cried, clutching onto him.

It was her job to take him in, to always do what he wanted. Her brain went, “whaaa?!” Then her hips shushed it away. She could worry about that later.

But still. “Mmmm... Okay, sweetie. Well, honey,—hunnnnnneeeee,” she whined. “Honey—mm—baby!“

He flexed his cock impatiently...

“So?” he coughed. Danielle didn’t answer him because she couldn’t. Her stupid boyfriend’s awesome cock made arguing really hard. So Danielle the ice queen just shimmied all the way down his mightier-seeming pole, taking him all in. “Ow!” she said, momentarily frail.

When the sound reached his brain, it had translated as “Harder!” Then she forgot about wanting to hop off of him. He hit the scream sector of her cervix and she howled like a mythical beastlet.

It wasn’t until after nearly fifteen minutes of riding her man that her brain kicked on again. “Fuck, it’s... no! It’s eleven goddamn thirty?!!“

“Melon Angel and Rockstud Rumprammon?” A hologram security tag, hastily stuck to the back flap of the envelope, had caught his eye wrong, and it gave him a stinging shock. It shot something into his brain that exported a whole life’s worth of new information right in, allowing him to know all sorts of information... and, information.

She ripped it out of his hand and giggled all the way to a graceless flouncy finish, right on her breasts—no!—her boobies. She chose to ignore the improbable swelling, but it just wouldn’t leave her be.

Neither one of them noticed a trail of neon pink laser beams (similar to the one that shocked Rick’s eye, shooting off from the box more like an emission of foreign energy, or some spatial blip, than a benign reflection) that resulted from her accidentally pointing their welcome package’s hologram sticker at the remote sensor on their TV.

The television set turned on and off by itself.

“Turn it off, it’s turning me on!!”

“Did you split your pants!”

“Omigod, shut up!” She play-clawed at his chest and purred.

“It says...” What was happening to him? It wasn’t like he was forgetting how to read. His head was simply unable to stay focused for longer than a single letter of a word. He stroked his bone, frustrated and freaked out. Come on! Why is unlearning how to read turning me on??

“Weeee.... inviiiiiite.... yeeeeewwww.... tooooooo-uh.... yoouuurrr.... weddin’ niiiiiiiiiiight... buffet an’... life insurance package?? Huh?” Danielle took a deep breath, snapping out of it. It felt like a big pink candy vagina had swallowed her entire brain

“Oh! See... We basically have to go down in four days if we want to claim the suite for the weekend. This sounds like some kind of harmless scam to me. I be.”

Danielle gasped. “Honey!” He swiveled his desk chair around as if he thought she said, “More!” He grinned a cheshire cat grin. Through the venetian blinds, her tits looked like five thousand tits.

Suit no. 2 had appreciatively accepted the invitation to spend a Friday at Suit no. 1’s cabin up in New Hampshire. Having to live with his daughter and wife in a military hideaway was draining in new and unexciting ways, each and every day.

He was planning on going alone, but he was also planning on Rachel, his daughter, not eavesdropping in on his private landline. She threatened to blackmail him if he didn’t take her along. He said the world just wasn’t safe anymore. She swore up and down that she’d squeal and tell her mom the truth.

He wasn’t on some task force investigating Cherub Cove, he was one of the fucking architects of the damn place! So he relented, naturally. “Did you really think he’d make all the money he does at a government job?” Bella, Suit no. 1’s daughter asked her, shortly after her father’s private jet touched down on an abbreviated runway beside a private lake.

They’d been circling around the lake in Bella’s daddy’s big boat for a half hour, before Rachel’s only friend in the world floored it way far out to the opposite side and the two sat there peacefully for a couple of minutes, before Bella had started shivering and shimmering. Rachel gulped.

Okay. Just keep calm. This probably isn’t what it looks like. Just don’t try to breathe in. Bella’s skin was glowing, bright, and a thick fuschia mist clung to the entire outline of her body. Her hair was growing, lightening and curling at an absurd speed. “Hey, Rach!“

Rachel went, “Yeah?” She winced. The high, babyish register of her voice made her sound like a dumb porn star. Bella threw her head back, laughed deep, and blew heaving lungfuls of gauzy pink fluff-mist into her friend’s jaw before she had a chance to shut it.

“I don’t feel so hot,” she puffed. “I think my butt’s getting bigger. I used to fit jus’ fine in this chair without the armrests diggin’ into my hips!”

“I think you definitely wanna make out with me right now!”

“But I’m siiiiiick!” she whined, fakely. Unfortunately, she saw through the sexy haze to her truth...

“Oh, shit,” lamented Suit no. 2.

“You guys, like, read the... innerwebs, I reckon, huh?”

“I’m sorry, Dad.” Bella socked Rachel right in the elbow. “Call him Daddy!” Rachel and Suit no. 2 shared a “kill me now” look with one another. She shivered and froze, terrified. Suit no. 1’s daughter did the same.

It was happening. It didn’t really sink in before, not completely. Now it did. She gasped, going pale. There was no going back. Infection... Breeding... That “bimboization” thing her mother and father kept arguing about for some reason.

It was happening. Her mind swam in an unpleasantly hot whirlpool of bewilderment. Nothing made sense but everything made her mad or scared or... horny?

She pouted, then in a half-second, wailed out a half gallon of hot pink salt.

It made her feel like she’d just taken a big bong rip.

It was happening. Everything her father had feared for the family. And all because she was taking her loneliness out on him. Now he’d probably feel punished for life.

A third man in an identical black suit, the only alteration being a red white and blue Hawaiian shirt, was laughing. Rachel’s heart sunk. It felt like it tripped and fell off of a skyscraper. “Hello, guys. The end of the beginning is upon us.

“Wait a minute, you mean you don’t hold government positions?“

“No! Of course not, silly.“

Now who’s up for a movie night? I hear “Giggle Puppy In The U.S.A.” is pretty good.”

“Who’s in that one again?” Bella asked, bored. She was rubbing baby oil on her new little pot belly, as if willing a fetus to buy some real estate.

“But what about movie night?” he asked earnestly. He was so precious.

“What about it?” she teased. Then ripped off his school uniform, polo first. She took her time fishing out his rod. “Fuck movie night!”

Rachel was so wet that he sank right into her and she set her ass to bouncing right away. Before she could relish the moment and imagine what it would be like to lord over Bella, she appeared at the foot of the conjugal bed.

“Seriously. Come on. Ewww-uh! My brother?” Then she legitimately vomited, but it somehow came out as soapy fuschia bubbles. No one acknowledged that, though. For the girls, it was as if they got karmically demoted or something. Like they’d been lowered to live as mere communication vessels for their craven vaginas.

“Cum on my tits, Spunky. Spunk that chewy gooey spunk all over Auntie Rachel’s big juicy melons!”