The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Dude, check out that Ochako down there! She’s really fucking cute.”

“Yeah, there’s definitely Zero Gravity on that ass, am I right?“

Up on the second floor “skyview terrace,” a narrow corridor looking down on the main convention center pre-function spaces, two young men were seated on stools at a high bar-style counter. Peering over the railing, their attention was not on the greasy, overpriced pizza that they had successfully extracted from one of the swarmed cafes (which was probably just as well), but on the energized, varied, and unusually colorful selection of humanity bustling around below them. Some of those specimens had tits and, presumably, vaginas, and thus were more worthy of the pair’s scrutiny than others.

The event was called Oku-Con: ”Oku” for “indoors,” because it took place indoors in the middle of the rainy season. And because every halfway decent anime con name had already been taken. It was regionally famous for cosplay, attracting all manner of skilled costumers and discerning aficionados, as well as a smattering of creepy degenerates. To wit:

“Aww shit man, there’s a Tifa!” enthused the first speaker, a Latino youth of 19 named Carlos. His body was lean, free of both fat and muscle, and his face was cheerful and unsullied by intelligence. “Original outfit too, not any of that watered-down Advent Children shit.”

“Ahh, she doesn’t have the body to pull it off,” his companion scoffed. He was weightier and pastier than his friend, with a complexion that suggested that greasy pizza was not an unfamiliar meal for him. His narrow eyes shone with the certainty that he was smarter than anyone else around him. Which was often true, because he spent a lot of time with Carlos.

The pair were somewhere in that age range that American society had judged to be too immature to drink beer, but sufficiently mature to participate in the sacred democratic process.

“She should’a dressed as Yuffie,” the white guy, Neil, continued. “No ass, and probably just like a C cup. Gotta be at least a D to pull off Tifa.”

“I dunno man, I still wouldn’t mind her doing her little victory bounce in front of me,” joked the Carlos. They both laughed crudely.

“Con rules say you can’t harass the cosplayers, you know,” cut in a disgusted young woman seated about a yard away from them.

“Uh, we’re not harassing them? We’re way up here?” Neil retorted condescendingly, after a half-second glance had revealed this woman to be fully-clothed, overweight, and not exceptionally pretty, the trifecta of doom for his attention span.

The undeniable truth of his words caused the woman to glare at them for a moment, before grabbing her bag and moving further away down the counter with a parting shot of “Assholes!” The undeniable truth of that failed to have any effect at all on Carlos and Neil, who turned their attention back to the concourse below.

“Oh man, look at that Sailor Pluto!” Neil pointed. “Man, she’s so fucking hot.” The woman in question was posing for some admiring amateur photographers, locking key-themed weapons with a pixieish Sora. Her streamlined sailor fuku was done in the classic short-skirted anime-style rather than the longer musical style popular among cosplayers, and her current battle stance showed off the curves of her bourbon-colored body, even from this distance.

“Dude, Sailor Moon is a dumb show,” complained Carlos. “And those costumes suck, man, you can’t even see their boobs with those big bows in front.”

“Fuck you, man, Sailor Moon is a classic and if you’d actually watch it you’d love it!” Neil insisted, in ferocious defiance of everything he knew about Carlos’s thoroughly shounen tastes in anime. “And there’s more to life than fuckin’ tits, dude. Look at that chick’s legs! Sailor Moon was groundbreaking in having cute heroines flashing their frigging panties. You think Ezra would wear a skirt if not for Sailor Moon? I guarantee you she’d be wearing, like... pants or something.“

“Ohh,” intoned Carlos, in due deference to Ezra Scarlet’s hotness and lack of pants. Carlos was easily swayed by people stating things confidently.

“Besides,” Neil continued, getting into a roll of spouting unjustified bullshit, “girls who cosplay Sailor Senshi are all sluts, dude. Everyone knows that.”

Carlos chewed that one over as he chewed his last bite of shitty pizza. “So... why don’t they wear sluttier outfits, then?”

“Because they’re embarrassed, man, don’t you get it? Sailor Moon is respectable enough that it’s got some plausible deniability, like” (here in an incompetent falsetto) “’no, no, it’s not that I’m thirsting for dick!’ But everyone at cons knows the score.” Unlike Carlos, Neil had been to anime conventions before, and was leveraging his sempai status for all it was worth.

“Woah,” Carlos responded, eyeing the departing skirt-clad ass of the Sailor Pluto with a new appreciation.

Pizza and education finished for now, the two descended to the ground level to meander towards the exhibitors’ hall. The wide busy hallway they passed through was lined with booths from various organizations.

Carlos stopped off at a booth for something called BLCon, lured by the bowl of candy on offer, from which he extracted a Twix and, after a moment’s hesitation, another Twix. These Twixes were like half-size, after all. Properly speaking, you’d need four to have a real Twix experience, but these were the only two in the bowl. “So this is like, a different convention?” he asked, his dormant trick-or-treating instincts informing him that candy needed to be purchased with perfunctory conversation.

“Yes,” replied the clean, bespeckled young man behind the desk. “BLCon is the region’s largest boys’ love and yaoi-focused...”

“Oh, uh, cool,” Carlos said, booking it with the Twixes. Hopefully they weren’t gay Twixes or anything.

He caught up with Neil at the booth of the local JET Program Alumni Association, where a stout fortysomething-year-old woman was informing him about the exciting, life-changing, and (most importantly) financially-compensated possibilities of teaching English in Japan.

“...and if your contracting organization agrees, you’re able to renew yearly for a total of up to five years, with accompanying pay raises,” explained the woman, who had not been getting too many bites today and was willing to speak to pretty much anyone. Odds were that this guy was a creepy otaku, but if he got that far, the interviewers were good at weeding such folks out.

“Well, I’ll think about it. I am pretty good at English,” Neil graciously conceded. He’d seen plenty of examples of dumb Engrish online; obviously he could teach the Japanese to do better than that. More importantly, he had the vague impression that for white dudes, the poontang flowed like wine in Japan. Or like sake? Whatever.

“Take a pamphlet,” the woman encouraged. “The timeline for the application process is all in there. Oh, you do need an undergraduate degree, though—it’s non-negotiable for the Japanese visa office. Do you have one? Or might you be expecting to graduate college at some point...?”

Neil’s smug smile froze, as did his fantasies of a cute Japanese school nurse in an implausibly-skimpy uniform riding his dick after-hours in the teachers’ room, moaning ’ikuuuuuu’. Stuffing the pamphlet into a pocket, he haughtily mumbled “Well, I’ll think about it,” again and stalked off.

Carlos hurried after him. “Hey, I’m starting college soon. Maybe I could go work in Japan afterwards.” Carlos was signed up for his first remedial classes at the local low-standards state university, undeterred either by his lack of particular ambition, or by the academic difficulties that had left him graduating high school a year late. He was good-natured about education; his troubles stemmed mostly from some kind of high-level executive dysfunction that prevented him from prioritizing schoolwork, and also from the fact that he was a moron.

“Ahh, college is all a bunch of bullshit,” grumbled Neil, resentful of the forces that had conspired to unfairly sabotage his chances of a life of ease and debauchery in glorious Nippon. “Nobody with real intelligence would do all the BS assignments those ignorant professors foist on you.” Carlos shrugged.

They were now almost beyond the booths; but the one at the very end caught Carlos’s eye. Just past a foreign goods import service, which was getting good traffic, sat a miserable-looking older guy (at least thirty, positively ancient). He was gaunt, stubbly, and bespectacled, and there was nobody at his table. The signboard in front read “Psychic Resonance Adjustment.”

“Are you, like, advertising a game or something?” Carlos asked the guy, who raised abruptly from his slouch, surprised at having a visitor. He had intended to buy a booth at Occulcon, but due to a completely understandable mistake that could have happened to anyone, instead found himself surrounded by weeaboos here at Oku-Con instead, one week early for his target audience.

“Uh, no, in fact! I’m a specialist in optimizing psychic resonances in individuals. Are you... familiar with the topic...?”

“Of course,” Neil answered, disdainfully. “Psychic powers are ESP and moving things with your mind and shit.”

“And then you might turn into some kind of crazy meat monster,” Carlos put in. “With tentacles. Kanedaaaaaa!“

“I’d take the tentacles,” Neil leered, turning to watch the shapely rears of a Chun-Li and Cammy who had just walked past.

The psychic man mentally lowered his impressions of his visitors, although probably not enough. Nevertheless, he carried on gamely with his spiel.

“Well, you see, all magickal and psychic practices are humans’ attempts to create a non-physical effect using non-physical means. Most people struggle to do so successfully because their souls aren’t resonating at the proper frequency with the universe. By adjusting your soul’s resonance, I can increase the likelihood that change occurs according to your will, even without invoking intermediary beings to...” The two young men’s eyes showed no flashes of understanding. He tried again. “I can... awaken your psychic potential?”

Neil rolled his eyes. “C’mon, Carlos, let’s go. This is so fucking sus.“

But something in the man’s pitch had caught Carlos’s fickle attention. “So you’re like the Supreme Kai. Or the Namekian Guru.”

“...Sure?” Guru? wondered the psychic guy. Was this kid some kind of Hindu or yogic practitioner?

“Alright, cool. Lay it on me!”

“Well, excellent. Now, I do charge a nominal fee of fifty dollars, which is of course an absolute bargain compared to...”

Carlos turned immediately. “Naw, man, never mind. Lead the way, Neil.”

“Wait!” the man interrupted. It was very important to maintain reasonably high prices to signal that his services were valuable, but on the other hand, this was the closest thing to a sale he’d had all day, and maybe the universe was trying to tell him something. And it was important for him to keep in practice. Not to mention that he’d somehow left his credit card at home, and needed cash to buy one of those personal pizzas that he saw everyone walking around with.

“How about five bucks?” he conceded. Carlos happily forked over the Lincoln and plopped into the cheap plastic chair in front of the booth, and soon the psychic guy was holding both of Carlos’s hands in his (slightly gay, but whatever). He closed his eyes, but otherwise made no particularly mystical motions or gestures. Carlos sat there, placid.

Neil tapped his feet, impatiently. “C’mon, Carlos, all the best doujinshi are gonna be picked over by the time we get there.”

“Naw, hang on a minute,” urged Carlos. “It took a long time for Gohan.”

“I think you’re more of a Krillin, dude,” Neil snarked, but he pulled out his phone and tapped into Genshin Impact while he waited for his friend.

Eventually, the psychic guy pulled his hands back, wiping a thin sheen of sweat from his brow. “Alright, I think we’re finished. That was easier than usual, actually.”

“Cool. So how do I move things with my mind?”

“Erm...” the guy hesitated. “You can use any type of occult practice you prefer, but obviously nobody can create that kind of physical force. Still, you should find it much easier to enact efficacious rituals. I mean, the universe should respond to your sub- and super-conscious mind more readily, in proportion with your focus, will, and serenity. I suggest a regimen of daily meditation to maintain the spiritual resonance that we’ve set up today, of a duration no less than...“

Disappointed, Carlos had already turned away, muttering “what a ripoff.” Neil was more than happy to finally get moving again as well.

“Don’t forget to tell your friends!” the psychic guy called after them.

Since the dawn of mankind, humans had sought to exert supernatural influence on the world around them. Systems of ritual, prayer, meditation, and mind-altering drugs had been employed to bring about the mental state necessary to shape the world around them.

What the psychic booth guy did not suspect was that Carlos was a one-in-a-generation natural magickal talent. Carlos didn’t need ritual or meditation to achieve a zen state: his mind was clear of doubt and distraction already, instead full of wide-eyed wonder, serenity, and a dash of deeply-entrenched delusion that was strong and flexible, like bamboo. (No amount of effort by Neil could convince him that Erica Steele, their sophomore year prom queen, had not been “kinda into him.") He combined a guileless openness to the world around him with a limitless capacity for optimism: to believe wholeheartedly, and despite evidence, in a better world than this. For a certain definition of “better.”

And he was still a little bit high from the THC gummies he’d eaten while they’d been waiting in line for their badges, which didn’t hurt.

Carlos’s amazing soul was now attuned to the cosmos, and the cosmos was listening intently. If, at that moment, his thoughts had been turned to those of peace and justice, he could have accomplished miracles.

Instead, he was hanging out with Neil at an anime con.

The dealer’s room was large and packed, a veritable Costco of overpriced imported plastic and fanart both pandering (read: commercially viable) and sincere (i.e., 100% unsellable). There was plenty to stimulate the eyes in any direction; but along with the goods came a new teeming mass of humanity, and Carlos and Neil certainly scanned the crowd for anyone worth looking at.

Here, then, was the first of Carlos’s influences: since his mind automatically tuned out people who were not exceptionally attractive or dolled-up for the male gaze, he had a certain confirmation bias going on. There were boner-inducing cosplay chicks all over, right?

And thus there were. Not that they magically appeared out of nowhere; such a thing would be blatantly impossible. But in concordance with Carlos’s expectations, certain patterns in Yetzirah, the World of Formation, were subtly strengthened. These patterns were then echoed in the lower existence of Asiyah, the world of Action. And as a result, female fans found their skin clearing up, their waists tightening, their asses and boobs shifting more towards the size favored by Carlos—which, to be clear, was not flat. Carlos was many things, but a lolicon was not one of them.

Even the costumes themselves changed. Skirts that had been lengthened for modesty’s sake became more source-material accurate. Necklines inched down. Tops expanded to accommodate their suddenly more-talented wearers... or, in some cases, did not expand, clinging to supple titflesh like a desperate lover.

A female Byleth, whose love for the character and her game of origin had made her put countless hours into assembling the rather involved outfit, discovered that she had instead assembled a Summer Byleth outfit, a cheesecake bikini number from Fire Emblem Heroes that showed much more skin than fabric. She now remembered deliberately choosing that outfit, but she couldn’t remember why she had wanted to—she didn’t even play Heroes. She had been leaning over a display case full of acrylic keychains, but noticed that the eyes of the men around her were pointed straight at her pendulous, only somewhat contained, breasts. Blushing deeply, she turned and fled, running chest-first into the face of a stout thirty-something guy who was delighted to receive such an authentic ecchi experience.

No, nobody quite understood that anything had changed, or why—not even Carlos and Neil. They were, of course, duly pleased by the flesh on display, but they were quite used to leering at women and making no further moves. So after a little more ogling, they got down to the business of shopping. Or, on their budget, complaining about not being able to shop.

“Fuckin’ price gougers,” Neil grumbled, returning the box of a large Casca figurine after seeing the price tag on the back. “I wish I was a hot chick so I could suck off one of these fuckin’ extorters for a discount.“

“No way that happens, dude,” Carlos scoffed.

“Fuck yes it does, man, it only makes sense. Why do you think these retailers price this stuff so high? Like anyone can afford this plastic shit! I’ll bet tons of these cosplay babes slip under the table to get themselves a special deal.” Neil at least had the good grace to mutter these accusations under his breath to Carlos, rather than speak them out loudly. That was about as far as his social graces extended.

Any other person who had spent more than five minutes in Neil’s company would have assumed that this was total bullshit. Carlos assumed that it was true. He cast his eyes around the nearby booths, searching for confirmation.

Down the aisle, a bespectacled high school senior with straight brown hair was browsing a selection of anime mugs on display under glass. She’d originally come to the con in casual clothes and furry white cat ears... a low-key nod to cosplay... but now discovered that she had supplemented her headband with an entire matching catgirl outfit, complete with fuzzy tube top, layered skirt that puffed up just a little too high on her creamy thighs, and a collar with a round maneki neko-style bell. Kind of embarrassing, she would normally have thought, but she supposed there was nothing wrong with getting into the spirit of things.

Her breath practically caught as she noticed a Revolutionary Girl Utena mug, displaying the protagonist protectively embracing her dark-skinned friend/fiancee. Utena was one of her obsessions, an deep, innovative, feminist show... that had come out back in the mid-late 90s. Despite its ardent fan following, finding merch was rare, especially outside of Japan.

“Excuse me, how much is this Utena mug?” she asked the dealer. It would be perfect to encourage her while holding her tea in late-night study sessions.

“Mugs are fifty-five,” the guy answered promptly, his arms crossed. He was a large man in a large JoJo t-shirt, with a large face and short-cropped blond hair.

Fifty-five? The catgirl was stunned. She couldn’t afford that, her whole con budget was thirty! She was saving for college, after all! Sure, mugs were heavy and breakable and rare and probably hard to import, so it made sense, but... she eyed the mug longingly. She had never seen one before, and would probably never see its like again. Not even on Ebay.

“Don’t let your jaw drop,” the guy cautioned placidly. “Or do,” he added a moment later, after his eyes flicked up and down her pandering Halloween-esque outfit.

The catgirl flushed, taking his meaning immediately. She’d heard (from... somewhere?) about this kind of exchange, but of course she would never. It betrayed all her feminist principles! Except obviously she supported the rights of sex workers, and legalizing prostitution and stuff. There was no reason for it to be so socially taboo as long as the woman was consenting and safe, right...? And seriously, good Utena merch was so rare, could she really let it pass...?

The dealer was already getting hard as he watched shame, materialism, and self-justification war across her face. These earnest young bitches always acted so innocent and holy, but in the end they were never too good to take a load in their face.

“I think I’ve got some out-of-production Utena artbooks here too, if you’re interested,” he added casually.

The catgirl came to the conclusion that her feminist principles demanded that she reclaim the term “whore” from the patriarchy, and wear it with pride.

Still casting his eyes around, Carlos caught sight of the catgirl scootching suspiciously behind the dealer table, and grabbed Neil’s shoulder, pointing it out in time for Neil to see her drop down under the table, and the dealer adjust his seated stance for better pelvic prominence. (Had they been closer, they might even have been able to hear a faint rhythmic bell chiming sound. Some of the other patrons nearby clearly did hear, making distasteful expressions at the shamelessness of the slut; but nobody reacted much further. This sort of thing happened all the time, after all.)

Neil just nodded sagely. “Told ya, man.”

“Dude, I can’t believe they’re really doing that! There are, like, kids around and stuff.”

“Aww, kids don’t notice any of that shit, they’ve only got eyes for their fucking Lucarios or whatever.” Neil had recently featured in a popular Youtube video, in which the uploader beat him on Pokémon Showdown using a Bidoof against his team of legendaries and he had gotten very salty indeed. As a result, he had suddenly decided that Pokémon was for babies.

Carlos, for his part, accepted Neil’s explanation, and the underage con attendees suddenly became nigh-oblivious to the sexual energy that was thickening by the minute. (They also became, on average, considerably more into Pokémon.)

They proceeded to the doujinshi booth that Neil wanted to visit. By the time they were finished browsing the pornographic fancomics (while loudly discussing which ones they’d already pirated for free online, to the great annoyance of the merchant), many vendors had traded away goods for surreptitious oral ministrations from cute women who had discovered themselves to be surprisingly cheap cocksucking whores. Or in some cases, pussy-eating whores.

Eventually, the pair meandered out of the dealers’ room and wandered aimlessly for a bit. Unusually, one non-female-presenting cosplayer did draw Carlos’s attention (“Woah! Dude! Look at that Nu Gundam! That’s crazy! Like, how did they even make that!?"), but other than that the convention was temporarily uneventful.

“Hey,” said Carlos, squinting at the convention program guide while they were catching their breath leaning against a wall. “What time is it?”

“Uh, like 2:00? Check your own phone, dumbass.”

“I think I’m gonna go check out a panel.”

“Dude, you don’t even know what a panel is.“

“Sure I do! It’s like...” Carlos paused; he’d been about to say ‘a thing that happens at cons,’ but had a sudden premonition of the ruthless mockery that would ensue.

“It’s just a bunch of people cramming into a room to listen to someone blab about shit,” Neil continued. “As if I’m paying good money for my ticket to just watch people jack themselves off about how smart they are.”

“Nah,” Carlos insisted. “This one sounds cool.”

“Suit yourself, dude. I think there’s a Smash tournament starting in the game room soon, I’m gonna head over there. Come find me when you get bored.”

Thus, while Neil was watching the cream of the local Super Smash Brothers community duke it out (and informing his unfortunate neighbor that these guys sucked and he could definitely play better than any of them), Carlos managed to successfully direct himself to Panel Room B, home to the “Female Sexualization in Japanese Media” discussion. Carlos was psyched—he was a big fan of sexy females.

He was even more delighted when he got to the room and saw it filled with chicks, scattered around. (Many of whom were hot, and dressed like sluts, thanks to the influence he’d already exerted). He’d had no idea that girls were into this kind of stuff. Of course, he did vaguely know that there were female anime fans online who were into some kinky shit; he’d just never thought he’d see them in the flesh.

Seating himself behind a Morrigan, he passed the time carefully examining the way her skin-tight costume clung to her butt until the panel speaker, a professional-looking, confident postgrad type with a dark ponytail, stepped in front of the microphone.

“Thank you all for coming,” she said, smiling with genuine pleasure at the assembled crowd. Turnout had been better than she’d hoped.

Backing up, a compatriot at a computer started up a clipshow that was projected onto the white screen on the back wall. A clip show came up, showing a lengthy montage of huge, animated bouncing tits, panty shots, tiny impractical outfits, a surprisingly-large number of blushing girls being groped by other girls in hot springs, and even (a provocative choice by the presenter, but one that she thought was worth it to provoke discussion) female adventurers from Goblin Slayer being dragged to the ground and assaulted by swarms of vicious greenskins, the actual penetration just off-camera enough to allow people to deny that it was flat-out pornography.

The crowd murmured as the presenter stepped back up to the mike.

“As you can see,” she began, “anime is full of pandering to the male gaze, with female characters often presented as objects of lust or subjects of sexual menace. This sexiness...” she paused; she was getting confused, surely she’d meant to say ‘sexualization.’ Or ‘sexuality’? ...Just plain ‘sex’? What was she saying, again?

She decided to pivot. “Would anyone like to share any reactions they had to that video?”

A petite redhead shyly raised her hand, and said something quietly enough that the panel assistant had to temporarily abandon the computer to run a second mike over.

“I mean,” the redhead began again, still quietly but clearly determined to contribute to the discussion, “like, watching anime and seeing female characters used like that makes me think that that’s how men are thinking about me, like I’m mostly important for my body.”

Carlos nodded to himself while the speaker prompted sympathetically, “And how does that make you feel?”

The young woman’s small freckled face blushed in embarrassment at being in the center of attention; a reaction that Carlos’s unfortunately-primed brain interpreted as arousal. Which was how she found herself responding, “Um, it makes me feel sexy, I guess? Thinking about how men who I might not even notice are seeing me, and thinking about me naked, or getting fucked, or dressed as a sexy maid and getting down to...”

“I see,” the speaker interrupted hurriedly, afraid that the conversation was getting away from her. “And, uh, does anyone else feel the same way?”

One by one, hands raised around the room, as feminists around the room discovered to their surprise that, in fact, they were quite aroused by the idea that men thought of them first and foremost as sex objects.

The presenter decided to move on to the next stage of the panel, even though she was finding her own thoughts turning to her day job as a bank teller, and how many of her peers and customers would devour her with her eyes if she wore a white shirt as insanely figure-hugging as some of the anime eyecandy she’d just used as examples. Assuming they didn’t just corner her in the breakroom and use her with as little shame as a goblin...

“Well!” she pivoted, with an effort, ignoring the moistening between her sharply-dressed thighs. “Regardless of our, um, personal enjoyment of these depictions... I think many would agree that images like in the video, which we often see in mainstream anime and video games, are an unrealistic representation of women. Does anyone have any thoughts about what effect this might have on young women, or indeed viewers of any gender?”

A show of hands led to the usual types of responses: shame, body image issues of all sorts, harsh judgments of those whose bodies existed even slightly outside the established beauty norms, etc. Carlos started to zone out.

Meanwhile, the presenter was starting to feel in control of the flow of the panel once again. Smiling, she prompted: “And what might we be able to do to change this pattern of unrealistic female imagery?”

Snapping back to attention, Carlos’s eyes brightened, and he shot his hand into the air eagerly. It was one of those rare moments when he absolutely knew the answer and could share it with the class. At an encouraging gesture from the speaker, he rose to his feet.

“Boob jobs!” Carlos exclaimed triumphantly. Several women in the room grimaced at his asinine suggestion, but nobody was rude enough to interrupt, so he continued. “Anime chicks’ boobs are, like, usually way bigger than real ones. So if more flat-chested girls got boob jobs, life would be more like anime. I mean, there’s also all that loli shit, but fuck that.”

Everyone in the room nodded, enjoying a quiet bonding moment of shared disdain for loli shit.

Mindful that there was no such thing as a bad idea, the presenter tried to shut down this guy’s idea gently. “I don’t think that’s realistic. Breast enhancement surgery is expensive, and hardly an accessible option to most women.”

“Oh.” Carlos furrowed his brow, but soon brightened. He waved his hand again for attention, even as he spoke. “Clothes, then! Women could dress more like anime characters! Like, no way would you ever see an anime character dressed like you, you know?“

Despite herself, the presenter frowned and looked down over her outfit—an open tan blazer on top of a v-necked black shirt, all over long, belted trousers.

“Okay,” she hazarded. “Just by way of illustration, what would be different about my outfit if I was an anime character?”

“Your top would be way tighter, for a start,” one of the audience suggested. A few others laughed in agreement.

“And you’d definitely have a tube skirt, not pants,” someone else suggested, getting into the spirit of things.

“Maybe, like, unbuckle the belt and let it hang loosely? Like as a weird little visual quirk?”

“Wait,” Carlos interrupted. “I can’t picture all that. Can you, like, actually wear it?”

The presenter almost protested, but the energy in the room was infectious. Cosplayers, ever-prepared for last-minute costume fixes, produced items from their handbags: lipstick, needles and thread for tacking the back of her shirt to bring it in, a spare pair of high heels that someone had happend to be carrying, and so forth.

When they were done, the presenter’s tanned tits were half-revealed, threatening to burst out of her tight, low-buttoned blouse or to break the basting stitch in the back if she so much as breathed heavily. Her new skirt made it hard to walk but showed off her shapely, well-exercised calves, and a quick makeup job made both her eyes and lips pop from a distance. She also had glasses, some kind of bright floral barrettes in her hair, and a scabbarded katana hanging from her side.

She did indeed look more like a character of some kind, though whether it was an anime character or a faux-schoolgirl/secretary from a low-budget porno was open to debate. When someone raised that point, Carlos countered that JAVs were ALSO a type of Japanese Media, so the panel should cover them too. This argument was accepted without further pushback.

“Uh, excuse me?” someone suddenly called out from the entrance to the room. Everyone turned back to see a pale, purple-haired woman with a gold lip ring, leaning in and waving impatiently. “I need to set up for the ‘Yuri Manga from a Queer Perspective’ planel?”

“We have the space for another half-hour,” protested the disheveled panelist, drawing herself up in a futile attempt to look authoritative despite the compelling counterargument provided by her outfit. If you could call it that.

“Well, I don’t know who screwed up there, but I’ve got a bunch of lesbian anime fans coming in here in five minutes, so you’ve gotta clear out. Unless you have a better idea?”

Carlos’s face lit up.

None of the attendees were able to describe afterward how, exactly, the event had turned into a joint panel that featured the disheveled feminism panelist and punkish lesbian panelist making out hot-and-heavy in front of their combined audiences, while the assistant at the computer streamed lesbian hentai action onto the wall behind them.

To be honest, neither could Carlos, but it had made sense at the time, and he walked away with a grin on his face... though it also kind of sucked to get all turned on by that kind of stuff and not be able to jerk off. (Not even in his most naive fantasies could he imagine that it was acceptable to masturbate in public in a room full of women. His momma had raised him right.)

As he retraced his steps to look for Neil, Carlos caught a glimpse of a large red orb at the end of a silver rod, sticking out above the heads of the passerby. Following it downwards, his eye fell again on the Sailor Pluto his friend had pointed out earlier—specifically her backside as she walked away, her full, tight ass swaying alluringly under her long green wig and black pleated skirt (shorter than he remembered—was that a glimpse of white panties against her deep brown asscheeks?). She had the kind of body that would probably turn rotund in middle age if not before, but for the moment was just aggressively thicc.

Remembering what Neil had said about Sailor Scouts being cock-thirsty sluts at heart, he briefly contemplated following her, but it’s not like he’d even know how to approach her. She was, like, hot. He spared her one last regretful glance as she turned into the narrow side hall that led to the bathrooms.

Carlos wasn’t the only one who had her eye on the dark-skinned woman, however; a group of athletic-looking guys wearing silvery plates on their black headbands exchanged looks and decisive chin-pointing, then trailed behind her, heading for the bathrooms as a pack in a way not normally associated with young men.

Thus, when the Sailor Pluto emerged from the ladies’ bathroom, carefully angling her key-staff around the white-tiled corner, she was suddenly accosted by a burly ninja who pulled her down the other end of the forked restroom entryway.

She barely had time to let out a “hey!” before she found herself manhandled into the back of the mens’ restroom, near the end of the line of urinals, cornered by half-a-dozen men in Hidden Leaf headbands. That was also the last clear vocalization she made, as rough hands forced a generous strip of duct tape over her mouth. She barely got a good glimpse of her assailants, but as a whole they looked college-age, muscular, and had pretty crappy cosplay skills. One of them was wearing orange, which presumably made him Naruto; the others, who knew.

By the time her brain processed all this and caught up to her, the Sailor Pluto cosplayer’s Garnet Rod prop had been yanked away, and her hands had been cuffed together around the sturdy pipe connecting the top of the urinal to some plumbing fixture that she couldn’t name, but which she was now getting a close-up view of.

“Mmmmph!” she protested, over the background noise of guys high-fiving and congratulating each other on their well-executed teamwork.

One of the guys was already pulling down her panties and roughly fingering her close-shaven pussy. “Nice, I don’t think she’s gotten fucked yet today. She’s already fucking wet, though—I’ll bet she gets off on teasing guys, the bitch.” He slapped her ass, the flesh ripping across her generous booty in response.

The Pluto cosplayer rolled her eyes. What assholes. They were right, though, she did get off on rape-baiting. Why else would she have chosen to walk around in this schoolgirl-esque uniform with an obscenely short (albeit manga-accurate) skirt? And soon, her eyes were rolling back in her head for another reason, as a girthy dick unceremoniously forced its way into her eager hole. She moaned into the duct tape unthinkingly. It just felt so good! And the thought that this was just the start, and that she’d be spending who-knows-how-long running a train as a bathroom cumdump for these misogynistic assholes made her squirm, her needy cunt moistening further around the intruding rod.

If only she could just ask to run a train on groups of guys all the time... but that would be too shameful and embarrassing. Only the filthiest of sluts would do something like this. Not like this assault, which she definitely hadn’t asked for and which nobody could really say was her fault...

Then one of the guys, impatient at waiting, yanked down the woman’s lovingly-tailored leotard top down over her generous cantaloupe tits and started mauling them for fun, and she was moaning, and she felt something start to spread open her tight asshole, as another bored rapist was now probing it with the rounded bottom end of her prop staff...

Her last clear thought before she became mostly a twitching piece of warm fuckmeat was that this would certainly be a story to tell the rest of her cosplay group. They’d be jealous as all hell.

Oblivious to all this, Carlos tracked down and reunited with Neil, who reported that a Ness player had won the tournament, which conclusively demonstrated why Super Smash Brothers was a shitty unbalanced game that sucked ass. Carlos filed this important knowledge away in his brain, somewhere below “ways that Nico Robin could have crazy sex” and above “when to capitalize words” in importance.

Going with the flow of the crowd, the two found themselves outside the largest of the convention center’s assembly rooms, where an extremely long line of chattering fans was starting to form, snaking down the curving hall and outmost out of sight.

“What’s going on?” Carlos asked, intrigued.

“Ahh, it’s just the cosplay competition,” Neil informed him, after a quick glance at the electronic event listing by the double doors. “It’s, like, a big fucking deal at this convention.”

“Cool, man,” Carlos enthused, down for anything as always. “Wanna line up?”

“No way, dude, you’ve gotta get tickets in advance. Like, line up at the start of the day or whatever. Total waste of time. Besides, these competitions ain’t about sewing or whatever shit, it’s just all about hot chicks with tons of Instagram followers showing off their T&A. Maybe they do some dumb skit or something, but who fucking cares. It’s all a bunch of dumb bullshit.”

T&A didn’t sound like bullshit to Carlos, but if they couldn’t get in, they couldn’t get in. He shrugged. “Dude, you know so much about cosplay. They should have you be one of the competition judges, man.“

“Yeah, well,” Neil preened.

It was unfortunate for them that they weren’t able to attend the cosplay competition. Shaped as it was by Carlos’s new expectations, it ended up as more of a sexy fashion show than a display of costuming prowess, featuring a succession of scantily-clad women attempting to out-slut each other for the enraptured audience. A Yoko Littner put on a display that was close to an impromptu poledance, sliding seductively around her lengthy prop rifle. A Rei and Asuka pair struck a series of rather gravure poses that displayed just how show-accurate their skintight plugsuits were—including not wearing any underwear, as evidenced by their visible nipples and camel-toe.

Had the judging actually been based on sheer male-gaze sex appeal, the top prize would likely have gone to the busty Faye Valentine who engineered an “accidental” costume malfunction that freed her jiggling udders in front of a crowd of hundreds (and a livestream). However, that honor was instead bestowed upon the RX-93 ν (“Nu”) Gundam, which in Carlos’s mind was still unquestionably the sweetest, most amazing cosplay ever. The guy hadn’t even registered for the contest; the judges had to go drag him inside to the award show. He was very confused. The Faye cosplayer had to settle for winning the hastily-added category of “Best Tits.”

But we digress. Carlos, robbed of witnessing those memorable displays, cast one final disappointed gaze back at the cosplay competition line as they passed, then sighed heavily. Neil didn’t often register other people’s feelings, but this was enough to make him glance over at his friend.

“Geez, what’s eating you?” Neil asked, seeing that Carlos was looking visibly downbeat. (A level of unhappiness equivalent to severe depression in your average person.)

“Man,” Carlos complained. “This con has been awesome, but I’ve been seeing such fucking hot chicks all day, and I know I don’t have a chance of getting with any of them.”

“Ha! Is that all?” Neil boasted automatically. “Dude, stick with me and we’ll be doing a couple of bitches in no time!”

“Seriously?” Carlos asked, credulously. Sure, he had never known Neil to have a girlfriend; or go on a date; or flirt; or interact with any attractive female in anything other than a perfunctory way. But he sure did sound self-assured!

“Sure, man!” Neil continued. Ordinarily, the fear of public humiliation in front of a hot girl would keep him in check, but he found himself bloated with confidence via Carlos’s unconscious mystical influence. “I’ve been reading all about picking up women. It’s all scientific and shit if you know what you’re doing, they literally can’t help themselves from letting you in their pants. Just be my wingman, and we’ll get with a couple of chicks, no problem.”

“Woah!” was Carlos’s initial comment, neatly encapsulating his whole standard range of emotions. “So, like... those two?” He pointed to a pair of college-aged Latinas in anime t-shirts who were enthusiastically unpacking a blind bag of Demon Slayer goods on the floor by one of the halls. They were both perfectly cute, not to mention (unbeknownst to the two males) intelligent, kind, sexually unrepressed, and pleasingly geeky; and if they had been willing to engage with unkempt weebs like Carlos or Neil in any kind of courtship context, the boys should by all rights have fallen to their hands and knees and offered up prayers of gratitude to the deity of their choice. Or at the very least, offered truly heroic amounts of cunnigulus.

Neil, clocking only that they weren’t a 10/10 on the hotness scale, dismissed them out of hand. “Nah, why settle? Let’s go for... them.” His eyes fell on an Instagram-worthy beautiful cosplay duo who were being photographed back to back; a curvy Asian Pyra and tall, natural blonde Mythra. They would have been gorgeous any day, but due to Carlos’s effects on the local cosplayers, their bodies were now even more hourglass-shaped, and their tight, bright outfits clung even tighter to their shapely curves.

“No way, man,” Carlos protested. “They’ve gotta be totally out of our league.”

“Well yeah, which means they’re used to dudes being all intimidated and acting like fucking betas around them. That’s why you’ve gotta neg them! Like, not let on that you think they’re all that hot, and stuff. Besides, everyone’s had to be all masked up and careful and shit for like two years, you just know that now they’re all thirsty as fuck.“

“That makes sense,” Carlos muttered, truly in awe of Neil’s insight into the female psyche.

So, following Neil’s lead, Carlos trailed behind him as they approached the duo. They were just putting down their oversized weapons, but half-posed again as they approached.

“Oh, would you like a photo too?” asked the Pyra, graciously. She made an effort to be polite even to scruffy-looking weirdos.

Neil didn’t respond, at first, just running his eyes up and down each of the cosplayers’ bodies in turn, critically. The two stood there, momentarily stunned that anyone would be quite so brazenly creepy. And then Neil opened his mouth:

“Nice cosplay. Shame you two aren’t a little prettier, or they’d be perfect. You wanna come hang out in our room or something?”

There was a pregnant pause, full of disbelief from the two women, and childish, eager hope from Carlos. Only the latter had the force of the universe backing it up.

Twenty minutes later, they were back in their cramped, cluttered hotel room, now considerably more cramped with the addition of two half-undressed cosplay chicks (and their discarded weapons, which occupied at least a fifth of the available floor space all by themselves). The Mythra was sixty-nineing Carlos, though admittedly she was giving considerably better head than she was getting: she was bobbing her head up and down along Carlos’s twitching dick in deep, confident strokes, while Carlos’s tongue just sort of wobbled enthusiastically around her nether region like an unusually moist drunkard.

As for Neil, he was sitting back against the headboard, fulfilling his previously-thwarted dream of having a hot Japanese chick riding his cock. And he didn’t even need to leave the country to do it. Take that, JET Program! (His partner was Taiwanese-American rather than Japanese, but this did not affect his particular strain of yellow fever, since he hadn’t asked. In fact, he didn’t even retain her name.)

Once she got a rhythm going, she leaned in with half-lidded eyes and tried to kiss Neil, but he pursed his wide, chapped lips. No kissing, that was his iron-clad (and until now, completely theoretical) rule for one-night stands. Wouldn’t want bitches to start feeling like they were dating or something.

“If you wanna make out, make out with each other,” he demanded, an idea that was met with enthusiastic agreement by Carlos and coy acquiescence by the girls. This was so slutty, but it was somehow exciting to be bossed around a little by a real alpha man! Even if he did smell faintly of weed and Cheetos.

Soon the beds were pushed together, as were the lips of the two women as they knelt on all fours and presented their shapely rears to the boys. They wasted no time in working their throbbing dicks into their partners’ clean-shaven pussies from behind. They felt just as mind-blowingly hot and tight as Carlos thought they would.

Carlos was not one to look a gift horse, or indeed any horse, in the mouth, but this was all so out of his life experience so far that he couldn’t help voicing a certain thought that had been gnawing its way into his big brain, past all the static emitting from his little one.

“Hey, Neil,” he began, slowly, while he settled into a fucking groove and tugged at the Mythra’s dangling nipples with one hand. “Do you think us getting lucky here could have, like, anything to do with that psychic unlock thing I did earlier?”

“Don’t be a moron, Carlos,” grunted Neil, slapping the Asian girl’s petite butt hard and causing her to moan into the blonde’s mouth. “That was all crap. There’s no such thing as psychic fucking powers.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Carlos readily conceded, his suspicions dispelled by the confident denial of his best friend. In the face of his momentary, sincerely-held refutation of the supernatural, Carlos’s burgeoning psychic potential responded by shutting itself down, lurching his mystical resonances hopelessly and forever back out of sync with the universe. And that was that.

“This is just what goes down at anime cons,” Neil concluded, decisively.

“Dude,” moaned Carlos, gripping the perfect curve of the Mythra’s hips and blasting his spunk deep into her tight, hot cunt. “Anime cons are awesome!“

At their next anime convention, they got themselves kicked out within the first ten minutes.