The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Dave Longman had been The Comet’s night print manager at Max Media for nearly twenty years. In all that time, despite late breaking news, legal injunctions or machine malfunctions, his team had never once failed to get the paper out in time to be on the nation’s morning newsstands.

He was also used to the occasional spanner thrown into the works by Sir Max and his love of gimmicks. A special fold or insert. Could we try this, or could we try that. Dave thought he’d seen it all with the infamous ‘scratch n sniff’ edition, but tonight was a real doozy for sure.

Several weeks ago, Sir Max had warned him about a special paper he wanted to try out on a future Page 3. Another gimmick that would reverse the decline in traditional print media of course. All Dave knew was that it was going to be a right pain in the butt.

First off, the wonder paper was prohibitively expensive, naturally, so it could only be used for page 3 like an insert, ie. for printing the sheet of pages 3, 4, 69 & 70. Plus it had to go a very specific way round on the press so the Page 3 image come out on specific place on each sheet.

Secondly, to cap it all, although Sir Max had assured him the wonder paper was safe once inserted as a single sheet into the whole paper, the roll in bulk for the press apparently had to be handled with same care for health and safety.

That meant that while the main crew printed the rest of the paper on the large print floor as normal, Dave and three others were in protective gloves, masks and special tinted eyewear, using an old sealed off press in another room to print the special page, trim it down and load into a special feed, jury rigged for the occasion, to the final collating machine, where the finished newspaper could be safely bundled for dispatch by the whole crew again.

Yep, a right bloody pain in the backside for sure. He couldn’t even see anything different about the paper, and to as if to add insult to injury, Sir Max was wasting it all on a fairly unattractive fat bird on Page 3, in some gimmicky celebration of Big Beautiful Women apparently. Personally Dave would have just jacked it all in on the spot, if it wasn’t for the highly usually fact that Sir Max was here in person to oversee it all. That, and the fact Sir Max had promised to pay time and a half to the four men handling the special paper.

Sir Max was very pleased with progress since his arrival back in the UK a few days earlier.

John had done a fantastic job, both with a prefect picture for Page 3 and with the layout for the accompanying BBW hardcore magazine special. Their Goddess had been so happy when they showed her the drafts, that she had wanked them both off on the spot. Max still felt a shiver of pleasure wrack his body, remembering her thick fingers wrapped around his cock, as they came in worship, and she allowed them rub their cum into the prefect flesh of her BBW belly in devotion.

Even the production of the special hypno paper, produced to the specification given to him by his Goddess, had proceeded without a hitch. It had been eye wateringly expensive to make, costing him over a third of his fortune, but he would give it all gladly to his BBW Goddess. It was also dangerously toxic in concentrated bulk, but everyone had scrupulously followed the protective safety wear protocol, probably too scared of Sir Max’s reputation to risk asking too many questions or to take a chance on not following his safety instructions.

And now his BBW Goddess’ day was finally here. Dave Longman’s team had managed the difficult overnight printing task, as he was confident they would. Sir Max could see down on the main production floor that the last editions were being collated, and all hands were rushing to complete the bundling and dispatch, before they could finally relax, another shift and edition of The Comet gone to bed. They were just 23 minutes behind their usual production schedule, still well within the time window to ensure today’s newspaper would make it onto morning newsstands right across the UK.

Down on the production floor, Max grabbed four copies of the paper and headed across to the old sealed off side press room, where Dave and his three top men were having a cuppa, having now shed themselves of the night’s unusual protective work gear.

“Great job” Sir Max beamed at the men, tossing the copies of the paper on the worktop by their steaming kettle. “Thought you’d like to see the finished edition. If you spot a typo now, I don’t want to know!” he laughed heading back out the door toward the loading bays to check the last of the papers had all safely got away.

Satisfied, Sir Max returned less than five minutes later. It was as if each man was frozen to the spot around the tea room where they were stood or sat, mindlessly staring at the unimaginable beauty of the BBW Goddess revealed to them on turning to Page 3. Each slave already had their cock out of their pants and was starting to masturbate in worshipful submission to their new BBW Goddess.

Max smiled as he closed the door again on the first of his Goddess’ army of followers, and pulled out his phone. He called Her. “You will be the rightful ruler of the UK by nightfall my Goddess” he told Her.

The building site foreman, Eddie Brown, was having a bad morning. It was his job to make sure the estate of 1,200 new homes was finished on time, against any supply issues and unreliable sub-contractor issues that were routinely thrown at him.

It was a job he did well. Usually. But this morning nearly a third of his subbies had failed to show. Sub-contractors were notoriously unreliable, even more so since the surge in demand for their services after the Covid lockdown. They were always tempted by the money to take on more jobs than they could really do, and then would try and juggle the clients by doing a morning working at one, then an afternoon at other, etc. Accepting that, and giving some leeway, was all part of the game in Eddie’s job if he wanted to get finished on time. But this unprecedented level of absence was taking the fucking piss. Eddie was going to have to give some serious bollockings this afternoon when the bastards finally turned up.

Mick the chippy had worked with Eddie for six years now, and could tell when he was pissed off. Eddie had been a good reliable source of contracts, right from the start of his carpentry business, and Mick tried to return the favour by always being reliably on the job. But it was obvious why Eddie was in a bed mood today. Even Mick could see there were far fewer contractors obligatory white vans parked around the site than yesterday. So he was keeping his head down in 107, getting on with the work, his own van parked on the drive, rear doors open with saw bench and wood in use alongside.

Mick’s phone pigged, signalling 12noon, and the traditional exodus of the subbies’ white vans from building sites everywhere to pick up and eat lunch from a favoured corner shop or newsagent. Mick moved some of his equipment to the side of the drive ready for his return, closed up the van and headed off site.

On this particular job, Mick was content to fraternise a petrol station shop less than a minute down the main road. It catered for what was pretty much every subbies universal lunchtime needs. A can of Coke, a plastic wrapped sandwich, bag of crisps, and a copy of The Comet. Then back to site to sit in the van, eat, read and have a smoke, before a final couple of hours work.

Mick polished off his sandwich and turned to the paper. He glanced at the front page. Who needed the news. Bloody politicians were all the same. A banner across the front declaring ‘The Comet Celebrates Big Beautiful Women’ barely registered, before he turned to the back page for the real news. The sport.

Having got his fill of the days’ sporting gossip, and read the punters view of the weekend horse racing coming up, Mick saw it was really time to be getting back to work. Just time first though to flick forward to Page 3 for a nice pair of fit tits to get his juices flowing to help get through the afternoon’s work.

‘We love Big Beautiful Women’ the top of Page 3 proclaimed above the picture of a fat girl with huge tits to Mick surprise. Suddenly it clicked. That’s what they were going on about on the front page. He didn’t mind a chubbier lady personally, he certainly wouldn’t kick one out of bed, but should it be on Page 3? Sceptical, Mick read the words along the top, “We love people in all their shapes and sizes at The Comet. So we are proud today to declare Big Beautiful Women are the sexist, with this gorgeous BBW Goddess on Page 3.”

He looked again at the BBW Goddess on the printed page. He could imagine sucking on those big tits, rubbing his hands over those hot folds of flesh as the growing erection in his trousers ploughed inside her.

Staring transfixed at the image, Mick was oblivious to the hypnotic vapers rising from the page to fill his nostrils. He was completely unaware of the information going straight into his brain down his optic nerve from the invisible micro dots embedded in the paper. Over and over, little groups of the hypnotic micro dots making heart shapes with one of three words printed across them in capitals.

LOVE, WORSHIP, OBEY

All Mick knew was that he was staring at the woman of his dreams. The most beautiful BBW Goddess in the Universe.

He had unzipped his trousers to take out his stiff erect cock, so that he could wank it for his BBW Goddess. He need to give everything he had to Her. To submit to Her. Nothing else mattered to him. Only his BBW Goddess.

He came for his Goddess. His worshiping cum splashing across the dashboard and up the van’s windscreen.

A mindless slave to his new BBW Goddess, Mick read the words printed at the bottom of the page alongside an 0800 telephone number. “To celebrate our BBW Goddess, Max Media has printed a BBW Magazine Special to share our BBW love with the whole family. To get your free copy and join our BBW Goddess’ fan club call now.”

Mick robotically picked up his phone and dialled the number. He heard Her sexy sultry voice telling him what to do, and he gave his details to register as another of Her BBW worshipers. For all able bodied men like him there was a local muster point to report to. Leaving his tools out on the drive, he simply drove away immediately heading for the location he had been given.

If Eddie Brown had had a bad morning, his afternoon had incredibly somehow got even worse.

Not only had his missing morning subbies failed to appear for the afternoon, now half his morning subbies had failed to return from lunch as well. Even the usually reliable Mick had gone AWOL for Christ’s sake.

Tomorrow he would be getting down to the bottom of this shit storm and no mistake.

For today though, with no-one answering his calls even to make some lame excuse, all Eddie could do was check the few remaining subbies were ok, then get on with some of the work himself, and pick it all up again tomorrow.

But first we was going to have a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit to calm down. As he entered the unusually deserted tea cabin, the rock station always playing on the radio was on a news bulletin, a man droning on about reports of civil unrest, or some such rubbish. Eddie wearily turned it off. There was no-one else here to complain, and he did want to hear about some unemployed leftie layabouts kicking off. They should come a try a day’s work on his site.

He sat down with his tea and biscuit at the cabin’s stained formica table. Someone had left a copy of The Comet on the table, presumable one of the now missing morning sub-contractors.

Eddie used to be an avid reader too, back in the day, but it must have been years now since he had bought a copy. He just got the main headlines straight off his phone these days.

He wondered if Page 3 was still going, and if today’s girl was hot. He took a sip of tea and opened the paper to take a look.

By the middle of the afternoon, the dwindling numbers of police not already enslaved to the BBW Goddess could no longer stop the ever increasing numbers of militia that just seemed to appear out of nowhere across the country to take control. There were no weapons or bloodshed, just sheer weight of numbers.

Soon after the mob outside Downing Street demanding regime change got inside too. There was no mass storming of the barricades. The police in the afternoon shift change, all enslaved by their new BBW Goddess, simple let them in. Someone in the crowd showed a copy of The Comet to the Prime Minster attempting to flee. Half an hour later he held a news conference with the cheering crowds outside Downing Street, announcing he was stepping down immediately, so the UK could be rightly ruled by their BBW Goddess, as was only natural.

By 5pm, similar events had played out up the road at Buckingham Palace. King Charles III, who had only be crowned 18 months earlier, abdicated in favour of his BBW Goddess, recognising it was the will of the people, as well as his own most fervent wish.

The BBW Goddess swept up the Mall from Knightsbridge to the Palace with her cheering militia, in a gold roller driven by Sir Max. She strode through the State Room and sat on her throne, supreme BBW ruler of the UK.

As She surveyed the Throne Room, filled with courtiers and ministers all desperately masturbating out their loyalty to their new BBW Goddess, our BBW Ruler allowed herself a wry smile at how easy it had really all been.

You didn’t need to spill blood for a successful Coup. You just needed to spill a little cum.