The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

My clock read “2:36 PM” before I was able to pull myself from this marathon. I had noticed my stomach growling around noon-thirty, but those two hours were—mostly unbeknownst to me—a war of competing physiological interests. In this state, Maslow’s pyramid was all topsy-turvy. I suppose, though, the stomach always eventually always—I clicked out of fullscreen (pressing jellied fingerprints into my trackpad) and was surprised to find that I’d skipped breakfast and lunch.

Well, in a way. I had prepared breakfast, and a great deal of it was slathered on the crumpled sheets around me. Without a second thought, my hungry subconscious raised my right hand to my lips, sucking each finger like I’d just finished a bowl of Cheetos. Maple syrup, mostly: my stomach groaned in whetted appreciation. It was only once I reached my thumb that I recognized the gesture for the disgusting state of affairs it denoted.

The tips of all my fingers were pruney, like I’d been in the bathtub for an hour too long, and the webs between them sticky with cheap syrup. My mouth had been positively parched before I’d indulged in these digits, but now, smacking my lips, I found that they were wet with appreciation. Aunt Jemima’s syrup, and my own brand of sodium. I shivered with the horrible realization: I enjoyed the taste of my own sweaty privates. Who would stoop so low as to ever be in a position to realize this? Certainly not me, and yet here I was, tempted to lean in for a second sample.

Tears rushed to my eyes. They’d been welling there since I realized I couldn’t cum, and this moment of shame-induced clarity was quickly breaking the dam. That was somehow still the worst of it: I couldn’t cum. The pleasure had deepened, yes, as I frigged myself raw for three and a half hours, but only gradually, and never enough to get me there. And worse: I think that gradual improvement (if this torture could be called that) was associated with my sweat, or the smell of my sweat, or something like that. The more slick a sheen of perspiration my body took on, the more I could feel the ministrations of my whirling fingers. I subconsciously had been building up more of a frenzy as the hours wore on, exerting myself in a full-body workout just to get the blood pumping. Could sweat be pushing out the remnants of that new soap? Did that even make any sense? My porn-addled brain couldn’t make heads or tails of it.

Suddenly self-conscious, I lifted my arm and crooked my neck down, nose to the damp fabric of my armpit. I breathed deeply, and deeper still when the dopamine receptors behind my eyes flared to life. Musk. Soil. Cinnamon and steam. Eyes rolled back. My sore pussy, it...wriggled. My mouth watered so palpably that a spring of drool crawled over my lip. “I—” I lowered my arm in a rare moment of strength. I refused to acknowledge the extent to which I lusted over my terrible odor, and spoke myself out of bed. “I need some food.” My stomach roiled its agreement.

How had I not succumbed to this earlier? I may not have been able to come into my own all afternoon, but upon swinging open those pantry doors, my discovery told me that I wouldn’t long be going without some carnal satisfaction. Six weeks worth of food. Six weeks. My tongue lolled out at the display—it seemed to go on forever:

Oreos. Corn chips. Salsa. Trail mix. Hot chocolate powder. Frosted flakes. Icing sugar. Vegan hotdogs (the best brand). Chocolate chips. Coca Cola. Kosher dill pickles. Tomato soup. Poptarts. Eggo waffles. Mint chocolate chip ice cream…the list ran away with my eyes, boxes bags pouches and assorted goodies. Salt, calories, fat and sugar.

A shiver ran from between my legs to my nipples. I looked down to find they had tented out—an image I was fast getting used to. I had drooled on my top—actually drooled. Six weeks of food. Six weeks!

And that wasn’t even counting the fresh vegetables. Fresh veggies weren’t exactly on my mind, then and there, but they must’ve been at some point in the night. Much to my humiliation. I can’t describe anything past the moment I noticed drool on my t-shirt; the rest of the evening is a blur. Something only half-myself took control of the situation. There was blood in the water, and I was fitting to gorge.

I awoke the next morning, sunlight streaming in through my living-room window. A pounding headache—I grabbed my forehead and rubbed my eyes, not yet fully conscious. Headphones, off kilter. I pulled them off and groaned. My mouth tasted sour. “Coffee…” I managed, sitting up higher on the futon. “I...need a coffee.” My eyes cracked painfully open, then shot wide in horror.

At least four and a half weeks of groceries were scattered, half-eaten in a blast radius around me. Cookies demolished, chips empty and half empty and one bag with what looked like tongue-lashings in the orange powder. My entire front was soaked in luke-warm ice-cream. “Oh god…” I grumbled, feeling ill inspecting the scene. Every little shift felt sticky—my skin to the t-shirt, my ass to the futon—

—my ass to the futon?

“Fuck.” I wasn’t wearing pants—they were crumpled across the room, closer to the kitchen than to me. My panties tangled around one ankle, rigid with icing-sugar and now-crystallized maple syrup. I sniffed—the room smelled of sex. Why does the—

—laptop open on the coffee table. Fullscreen, a big-breasted anime girl cumming her brains out, quickly replaced by another image, near identical, and another one, ad nausium. High-pitched squeals rang from my headphones, which clattered to the floor. Michael’s audio swam beneath the surface. Hentai. I had been watching hentai on loop, all night? I had fallen asleep to this? I don’t know that I knew hentai existed before this, apart from holding the vague knowledge that degenerate teenagers would jerk themselves to anime body-pillows, or something along those lines. And now here I was falling asleep to the stuff.

I leaned forward to assess the damage, but a sharp pain stopped me before my legs gathered momentum. I hadn’t been falling asleep to the stuff, per se. Though I had eventually passed out from exhaustion.

Whatever personified need had taken hold of me last night did not stop at gobbling up everything in my cupboards (plastering most of it, I noted, on the floors, futon, and my person). It seemed just as determined to sate that burning primary hunger as I was—and the yearning between my legs was anything but abated. Added to that yearning, though, were two new emotions: shock, first, followed quickly by humiliation:

I was hunched back again on the futon, unsure what to do with my sticky hands. Prodding two inches out of my vagina, bearing the distinct outlines of what must’ve been my white-knuckled grip, was a full zucchini. Below it, mercifully smaller but dangerously close to being swallowed up by my rosebud—a carrot fresh from the crisper.

I had found use for the vegetables after all.

It should have been a wake-up call. Something was seriously wrong with me. And it was, for a moment. I grasped the zucchini along its finger-dimpled imprint, perfectly fitted to my hand, and pulled expecting resistance. The oblong veggie schlicked out like a hot knife through melting butter—wet, indiscrete, futon-sullying. I nearly came on the spot—orgastic contractions pulsed and pulsed down my entire lower half, push push pushing the carrot out of my previously virgin asshole. It flipped over the edge of my seat, a wet thump on the floor, the expulsion sending me through another domino—this one dangerously foreign—of quivering waves.

“How…” I breathed, overwhelmed. “How did…”

I couldn’t form a question out loud. Consciously, too many questions competed for attention for me to answer any single one. How did a carrot end up in my ass? Why did it feel so good? What is wrong with me? Why do I love this so much?

My legs flopped down, feet on the crumb-scattered floor, as I tried to catch my breath. Thoughts took a turn: Does this mean I can feel my pussy again? I looked out the window to make sure nobody could see me from this angle. Does this mean I can finally—

A knock on the door. A knock on the door!?

I came to myself and assessed the situation. Food everywhere. All over the futon, all over the floor. The coffee table was still dripping what looked like Coca Cola, but could have been any of the knocked-over drinks and up-turned bowls of canned fruit or sugary cereal. My stained, discarded clothes, my hairy legs, my furry privates. I was in no state for company. And wasn’t that illegal right now anyway?

“Wh—” I began, having to stop and clear my throat. “Who is it?” I remained spread on the futon, not ready to traverse the minefield of destroyed rations between me and the apartment door.

“It’s Terry,” came the voice in the hallway. Landlord. Shit. “Rent was due five days ago.”

I looked around, desperate for some excuse that would have him leave. Give me a minute to fix whatever was wrong with me. “I’m, um— I was about to get in the shower, Terry!” I leaned forward and closed the laptop, cutting off a pink-haired beauty mid-squirt. “I have the money, just completely forgot. Things have been crazy.” That wasn’t a lie. “Can I bring it down to you in a minute?”

Silence, broken by a terse response. “Yeah,” came his reply through the door. “See you soon.” The sound of keys jingling in time with his footsteps faded down the hallway.

“Bye!” I tried to sound optimistic. Apologetic. My normal self. “Won’t be long!”

Alone again, but deeper in the pit. And now with a daunting new prospect. There was no way I could leave the apartment like this—even just to drop a cheque off at Terry’s little first-floor office. I would have to clean myself up. My eyes wandered from the carrot at my feet, across the apartment to the bathroom door. Anxious pangs: I would have to shower.