The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Janet could feel her body thrumming from its core that morning when she arrived at the office. She wanted to smile, and from her chest up she felt like laughing, but different sensations mixed and mingled—distracted one from the other. Her ass, for instance, was definitely bruised from the spot she’d been slammed into the counter. Her legs were sore, having held them up over her husband’s shoulders for what must have been, cumulatively, four hours? Six?

She winced as she sat down to check her email. Janet’s pussy was sore—pounded at her command, filled, sprayed, spat upon, and pounded again. She had lost count of the climaxes, wavering in and out of sobriety, Owen slamming his pelvis against hers more aggressively every time she came to herself. Was she remembering all this correctly? That couldn’t be possible—but how much of it was a dream? Had her husband actually begun braying as they copulated? And had she indeed encouraged him? Was it all some beautiful nightmare?

Her kegels clenched at the un-sought-for thought, eliciting a wince from her eyes.

“Jeeze, Janet!” a young woman set a steaming mug of tea down beside her boss’s keyboard, “you look even worse than you did yesterday! What are you doing here?”

The stiff-and-sore executive knew her colleague had reason for concern. Having woken on the kitchen table, coated in miscellaneous fluids (at least two cups of which were leaking out of her nethers, dripping onto the floor), she was positive she hadn’t caught much sleep.

“Hey Mia, thanks,” Janet took a sip of the warm, life-giving caffeine. “I’m alright.”

The younger woman gave a look which indicated she wasn’t buying it.

“Quarterly’s due tomorrow, and all my files are here. I just need to get this done and then I’ll get some rest.”

Suspicious eyebrows.

“Really!”

It was enough to shake Mia off. Truth be told, that was only half the story. In addition to the bumps and bruises incurred through an overindulgent night with Owen, Janet could was worried that something was wrong with her. As good as it felt, she knew that these new urges were pushing her into a realm where she risked losing something of herself. Last night had been more intense than her hair-in-a-bun self would usually allow, even if it was what she needed after that sexual drought.

But the encounter had only whetted a new, primal, appetite. Her pussy wasn’t sore from the pounding, the stretching, the clenching, she knew. Her pussy was sore from the swelling. She’d discovered it upon waking on the table—her clit, two inches engorged. Her lips, inflated and plum-red. Even my nipples!, she thought. She could feel them pushing through her bra, her blouse, her blazer, like potato eyes searching for light. When she’d pulled her bra back over her tits, that morning, supporting herself from behind with one arm, she’d actually almost cum on the spot.

Something was wrong with her—that was certain. Mia didn’t usually smell this good. Didn’t usually sway her hips in a way that made Janet’s clit poke out, wriggle against the silk between her legs. She could feel it taking over again, the same way it had taken over Owen last night when she’d triggered something deep, stupid, greedy. The same way it had taken over this morning, on Janet’s way out the door. She had found Owen’s sleeping body on the floor—cock long, black and leathery—and, on an evil whim, stuffed four yellow pills in his mouth, forced him to swallow.

Something was wrong, and the worst of it was yet to come.

Owen felt the same productive impulse, this morning, as he did yesterday, but nothing was going nearly as according to plan. He’d woken up splayed on the kitchen floor, pants around his ankles, shreds of yesterday’s t-shirt still clinging to his skin, caked with a combination of Janet’s juices and his own cum. He’d been drooling.

Came and went without so much as a peep. Janet’s leaving for work may have elicited a groan, a gulp, but neither was conscious nor recalled. Needs brought him alive?—gurgling hunger pangs, emanating from his stomach and his prodigious...enhancements.

Owen snapped out of it. He’d been standing before the open fridge for how long? His day thus far had been like this?—it felt like he was blacking out, but that wasn’t quite right. He was graying out. Still semi-himself, but slower. Dumber. The energy that he’d channelled yesterday into cleaning, tidying, making something of himself, had clearly been intended elsewhere. Sufficiently empowered, it found its own way home. Five pills deep (unbeknownst to him), that energy was now focussing entirely on his equine improvements. On jacking up his...virility. Owen stood before the open fridge, and the contents of that fridge had been scattered everywhere around him.

He wasn’t sure when. His dark erection pulsed heavily. He was covered in leftovers, spilled milk, miscellaneous preserves. His balls drooped, and gurgled. Sticky with syrup, with flour, with strawberry jam and sunflower oil. A translucent bead rolled out the head of his leathery member.

He needed to sit down. He needed?—

more.

10:34AM

Regular girls weren’t doing it. Hairy girls weren’t doing it. He’d cum once on the sheets, once on Janet’s pillow, and still those fleshy orbs screamed out for more. They roiled, they clenched, they pumped, they demanded. His stupid fingers followed their directions as well as his donkey-brain could make them: “dunky girll prn”. Close enough.

“Hawwwyes,” Owen sighed, pulling at his cock once more. Both hands, tongue lolling out.

12:56PM

It was a wonder Owen’s keyboard still functioned. He’d sprayed it down thrice in the last hour alone, and showed no sign of slowing down.

“Hawhe,” he breathed.

His cock was enormous. Rivalled his femur. Skin red, leathery, chafed and abused.

“Heee,” his voice hitched, and he came again.

2:32PM

By now he had pissed the bed, unable to stop jerking long enough to relieve himself. The pressure began to build in earnest by now. Still cumming regularly, some might even call it prematurely, his drunk-on-barnyard brain could see a tidal wave on the horizon.

3:40PM

Cunnies. Carrots. Closer.

and closer...

4:16PM

Boiling. Burbling. Bobbing up and down.

“Haw Hee!”

5:07PM

Jilling. Jerking. Jennies. Jennies.

J E N N I E S

5:31PM

C?—cunts…

Bur?—burbling..!

J?—Jen?—

?—Jan??—

Janet.

JANET

The dam broke. Owen’s donkey balls convulsed, his asshole clenched grotesquely, his jackoff cock pumped and pumped and PUMPED gushing hot splats up his chest, down his chin, across the duvet, upon the clock-radio.

Aftershock: the second wave—

Owen’s stomach shook. His cock impossibly pushed thick, white gloop out onto itself, dripping, clinging?—disgusting hot and blasphemous. His tailbone creaked. He pushed and brayed. Thick log, yesterday’s gorge, plop splat plot behind him, Janet’s pillow, living space, lutrine. He grabbed his cock, lost his balance, and fell back into his mess, flat upon his ass, flat upon his...tail.

A donkey’s tail. Was he finished cumming? He couldn’t tell. Disoriented, and anything was possi—

“—Oh. my. GOD.” Janet stood in the bedroom doorway?—he hardly recognized her, coming down from nirvana. But even an idiot donkey can distinguish a threat: Owen knew enough to fear for his life. His wife stood rigid, shaking, rage in her eyes and a collar clasped tightly in her balled fist.