The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Your mother is quite strange, said the creature sharing Meagan’s body. Its voice—and it did insist on being called “it”—had once seemed so foreign and invasive, but now it was warm and gentle. On some level Meagan knew that she hadn’t organically come to love the worm or its probing voice. She knew that she’d been…her less enlightened self would have called it “fucked with,” in order to make her like this worm and its presence. It had bonded directly, physically, to her nervous system and rewritten neural pathways or…whatever, and forced her to like having it there. But nevertheless she loved having the creature in her body. She loved the feeling of so intimately sharing with another, giving them nutrients directly out of her body like a pregnant mother feeding her young. The physical changes that once bothered her—her breasts getting bigger, the minor changes in her body’s weight distribution, the change of her proportions over time even beyond that to be a bit more compact and lanky—those all felt homely now. Her partner had changed her body to be more like it. There was affection, in that.

Or so her brain told her.

What makes you say that, Meagan asked inside of her mind. The “parasite” had some access to her thoughts, but she only seemed to be able to communicate like this if she actively chose to put questions, in words, at the front of her thoughts. Otherwise only feelings and her most surface level observations seemed to get through to it…when it wasn’t actively looking for something, at least. She ate some cereal and allowed herself not to pay attention to whatever her mom was saying over in the next room.

You went out exploring a meteor crash site you shouldn’t have and she’s blaming the changes on your vacation, the creature snarked. Meagan wondered briefly whether this creature had any sense of gender or if there was some kind of link between it and her mind that translated human concepts like gender. Perhaps a more literal translation was responsible? It would explain why they could communicate. Meagan quietly finished her breakfast and looked around the plain walls of the kitchen. They were painted a drag yellow and sorta matched the plain brown of the counters. The whole house had that kind of energy: bland. Functional. Default, in a way. She rinsed off the bowl and her spoon, then put them in the dishwasher.

Her mother’s rambling continued as Meagan walked out the front door. She was nineteen and had a driver’s license, so she was legally allowed to drive, but cars frightened her partner so she refused to drive anymore out of principle. She still carried her keys and her wallet, though. Getting locked out simply wouldn’t do when a night in the cold could kill the worm that she was hosting.

Of course, her body temperature would probably protect it handily. That didn’t mean that she didn’t feel the same instinctive disdain for the cold as it did.

She made her way out in a random direction. Her partner’s memory worked differently from hers, for directions especially. As long as it never lost consciousness, she had no reason to fear getting lost. That alone offered a kind of liberation, ironically. Meagan whistled cheerfully as she walked and enjoyed the feeling of her knee-length skirt’s soft thin fabric as it fluttered in the breeze and tickled her thighs. She wore no shorts underneath it, nor did she wear a bra under her plain white blouse. The former was because she no longer felt any fear at the idea of someone seeing under her skirt, while the latter had a much more direct explanation: the B-cups she wore a mere month and a half ago did not fucking cut it anymore.

She was driven by instinct to meet new people, to befriend new people. Each face that she saw was a potential friend, and she needed to make friends. It was no less—in fact, plausibly more now—of a need to her than food, but likely still somewhere below oxygen or water. As she passed a small music store she’d never entered before, she froze. Thoughts flew about in her head, both too quickly and too deep in her subconscious for her to be aware of them. They were running calculations, possibly? Some kind of risk-reward assessment, in all likelihood. The worm in her skull seemed to be fond of using her as a calculator, but for social forecasts instead of math equations.

That thought amused her. She wiggled her hips and stretched her slender arms as her thin blonde hair waved in the wind. She was a tool, a host, a pretty lovable shell for the worm co-habitating her physical body with her. She gave it nutrients and company, physically protected it, and in return it kept her happy. She knew on some level that this was an incredibly skewed perspective, one that had been more or less forcibly imposed on her—but the part of her brain that was capable of that kind of reasoning simply didn’t have enough power to move her anymore. She lacked the physical ability to care enough to be bothered.

So she wasn’t bothered. She pranced happily across town, images of herself in less conservative clothing wafting through her mind. A part of her wondered whether it was pressing into her this drive to dress and act more playfully slutty because it thought her body was pretty, or because it reasoned that a more attractive host would have less trouble attracting more “victims.” It might even have simply wanted to show off its handiwork! Alas, she could not access its thoughts the way it could probe into hers.

Mimsley was done checking all the rental guitars in her dad’s shop and stood bored behind the cash register. She was eighteen, but the weary scowl she wore by default made it hard to guess at first glance that she wasn’t a jaded college student a bit older than that. Her dark blue eyes glanced up from her front door at the sound of the bell. The fingers of her right hand—each of which sported a long acrylic nail that were all midnight blue—drummed at the counter with a satisfying series of clicks. Her pale skin contrasted her eyes and nails, which meant that it also contrasted the big poofy ponytail of hair the same color which stuck up from her head. She wore a black t-shirt and tight, dark blue jeans. It was not difficult to tell she had an aesthetic.

“Can I help you?” Mimsley asked in what conspicuously wasn’t a customer service voice. The customer—a blond girl with short hair—practically skipped through the store. She wasn’t buying anything. Mimsley couldn’t explain how she knew, but she knew. She had a knack for these things. “A gentle reminder to read the sign.” She pointed to a sign by the front door, which read “NO LOITERING: Non-shoppers WILL be removed by authorities.” She hated the sign, frankly, but if she was annoying enough about it then her parents tended not to notice that she didn’t actually enforce it.

The blonde girl didn’t respond. She waltzed up to the counter with a sunny smile and waved. Mimsley rolled her eyes. Oh, good. This was going to be one of those days. She wasn’t here to make friends, and she definitely wasn’t interested if the person wasn’t gonna buy anything. Her eyes burned into the sunny floozie’s body with scorn. Hers was definitely the body type to get all the boys she wanted. Lithe, big boobs, soft lips, an unthreatening face, bright eyes, hair that looked like it could only be more cooperative if it was literally magical. While Mimsley was hardly jealous, in her experience girls like that only acted this ditzy because it worked on boys.

This was either a ploy or a sheltered airhead. Either way, Mimsley was not in the mood to deal with it. She tapped at the desk with increasing frustration.

“Hey, cutie!” Said the blonde with an obnoxious smile. Something about her cheeks seemed…off. They were a bit too angular compared to the rest of her, maybe…?

And then they weren’t.

Weird.

“Are you buying something?” Mimsley asked with a pouty huff. “Unlike the instruments, I’m not for sale.” Was it an overly meanspirited remark to subject a stranger to? Perhaps. But she was simply not up for it today. She turned her attention down to her phone and tapped it a bunch with her thumb.

“Not buying, just saying hi! I’ve never been to this part of town before. Or I guess I actually totally have, hehe!” The blonde girl gushed. Her voice was that same brand of CuteTM that boys went wild for but which she found infuriating. “Hi!” You said hi already, dumb bitch, Mimsley kind of wanted to say…but that would be rude as hell so she restrained herself.

“Then leave or buy something,” Mimsley muttered in an agitated manner. She glanced up to glare…

To glare…

To glare into…

Mimsley was trapped. She felt caught in the stranger’s eyes, unable to move. Her body locked up on its own and no matter how she struggled, it wouldn’t move. Her hands trembled and shook violently, her mouth fell gaping open, but no amount of effort would actually allow her to move. Strangled attempts at words stumbled out of her mouth as her brain struggled to scream.

“There there, darling, you can say hi back,” Meagan said lovingly. Mimsley’s body ignored her commands entirely but still responded on its own. Her head moved up and down.

“Hi, Meagan,” said Mimsley. Outside she wore a mostly blank expression, relaxed in spite of her trembling hands but still sporting a frown. On the inside she was frantically smashing all of her body’s controls at once trying to wrest command of it away from…how did she knew this girl’s name was Meagan.

“What were you doing on your phone?” Asked Meagan politely. Her voice didn’t annoy Mimsley as much this time, which paradoxically annoyed her even more than the voice itself had. She should be angry! She should be seizing this annoying bitch by the-

“Writing poetry,” Mimsley’s mouth said. Her mind recoiled in betrayal, tried to scream, tried to take it back. Her body refused to participate, no matter how hard she tried to force it to.

“Awww, that’s so cute!” Meagan squealed. “What about?”

“BITE ME!” Mimsley screamed inside of her flesh prison.

“Love and romance,” her body told Meagan. “Cute animals. Sunshine.”

“Awwww, precious,” the stranger cooed. Mimsley desperately wanted to escape, to crawl out of her own body if she had to, and get AWAY from this nightmare woman and this feeling of being so trapped. She tried to get her fingers to input the “alert emergency contact” shortcut in her phone, but instead they clamped tight around the uncomfortably angled corners of its case. Try as she might, she could not get her fingers to loosen their death grip. “May I read some? I’m sure it’s lovely. You strike me as having a beautiful smile, you know?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Mimsley ordered her body to scream. Her body did not obey her. She was not its boss at the moment. Her jaw simply refused to budge, even if her attempts to rip it away from its slack frown made it shake.

“Of course,” Mimsley’s body answered. To her horror, her hand reached out to give Meagan her phone. She struggled not to, tried to rip her hand away like she was fighting a vacuum or a strong wind, but she couldn’t do it. The phone got to Meagan’s hand, which took it from her with ease. Mimsley felt a rush of embarrassment. Her face flushed an intense red and she felt like she would shrink into a marble out of terror. Meagan (again, how did Mimsley know Meagan’s name?) scrolled through the contents of Mimsley’s writing and grinned wide. For some reason, mixed in with the pre-existing dread, a wave of euphoria smashed into Mimsley’s brain. Why did Meagan’s approval feel so damn good!?

“Ohhhh this is so darling~!” Meagan cooed over the poetry she was reading. Mimsley’s heart fluttered and butterflies flew in swirls within her stomach. She loved this, and she absolutely hated that she loved it! This was some stranger who barged into her store! “I suppose I must buy something now, to show you my appreciation, cutie.” Meagan walked away. She never broke eye contact, though. Mimsley’s face moved of its own accord, keeping her traitorous eyes locked dead onto Meagan’s as though they were a plant reaching for the sun. The blonde grabbed a paperback about the history of sheet music and placed it on the counter.

“That’ll be eight fifty,” Mimsley muttered under her breath. She wanted to recoil at the cringeworthy ocean of lovestruck adoration coating her voice, but her body wouldn’t allow it.

“Okay, darling,” giggled Meagan as she placed money on the counter. “May I request a kiss from you, before I go?” Mimsley’s brain exploded into a phantasmagorical wash of pinks and yellows as if a firecracker detonated in her frontal lobe. Too stunned to even reject the offer within her own mind…

“Of course, sweetie.”

Meagan came around the counter and planted a long, lingering kiss inside of Mimsley’s mouth. Mimsley felt Meagan’s soft pink tongue probe into her mouth, beneath her own, and it did…something. She wasn’t entirely sure what it was, but the thing done to her by that tongue felt positively heavenly. Her body melted and for a time, so did her brain. Meagan’s arms held her close. She was loved.

After a while, Meagan left. The bizarre, almost druglike high inflicted by her kiss stuck around in Mimsley for most of the day, which meant she was unusually—even off puttingly—sunny and sweet with all of the day’s other customers. Few of them noticed. It was only when she was closing the store that the beautiful haze started fading away and she realized how strange she’d been acting.

“Wh…” she murmured to herself as she realized the entire day had gone by. Dizziness took her; she slumped against a wall for a moment until it passed. She felt clammy, uncertain, and confused. The area under her tongue tingled. Maybe she should go…

See a…

No, she realized. There was no need for that. In fact, she was going to be fine.

The knowledge comforted her. She smiled partly and resumed her work.

Mrs. Darsla blinked. She wasn’t sure what Meagan had done with her eyes this morning, but they were positively stunning. It was like looking into them had seized her in the grip of a gigantic vice, and she could no longer look anywhere else, no matter how or what she tried. She tried to hide it while she taught, but every time she tried to turn away from Meagan’s eyes her body simply refused to allow it. She laughed nervously each time and simply wrote on the dry erase board facing the class at a forty five degree angle. Had the class noticed? She was wholly unsure and she hoped to herself that they hadn’t.

As the hour and change ticked by, she found herself tripping over her words. Occasionally something about Meagan’s eyes became even more overpowering for the briefest moment and she was left completely paralyzed. These fits lasted no more than a few seconds, but they terrified her nevertheless. Each time she was suddenly unable to move, trapped shaking in place with her jaw frozen halfway through a word as she trembled with awe over something she couldn’t identify. Her body was screaming at her: “something is wrong!” and yet, it refused to obey any directive to leave the object of its anxiety. She kept eye contact through her entire lecture.

The time came that her class was dismissed. The tired professor sent her students away, and was greatly relieved when Meagan Dagginsfield left with them. The girl fluttered her eyelashes in Mrs. Darsla’s direction before she went though, which elicited in her an inexplicable dread. She collapsed into her desk and heaved down heavy breaths, one at a time. In, she said to herself, and out. In and out.

The professor who taught in this room after her entered it and placed their things down on the desk. They were halfway through setting up for their class when they said something to her. Mrs. Darsla was too wiped out to process it the first time, though. A few seconds later they spoke up again.

“Mrs. Darsla! Are you alright, ma’am?”

“Not entirely,” Mrs. Darsla answered as she shakily stood up from her chair. The other professor, who she now had enough brain matter working to recognize as Mx. Hols, regarded her with a look of intense concern.

“An understatement,” they commented to themselves as they scanned her over. Mrs. Darsla failed to notice that she was staring directly into their eyes at every opportunity. They paused in their work and frowned at her. “You seem pale and winded. Have you been overworking yourself?”

“I’m a professor, of COURSE I have,” Mrs. Darsla answered with a dismissive wave of her hand. Whatever had gotten into her started seeping away, allowing her to return to normal. “I will be fine, I assure you.” She felt blood returning to her face as she talked, and could only assume that it would banish the pallour of which her colleague spoke.

“If you insist, ma’am. Don’t go coming into work sick, it jeopardizes everyone,” Mx. Hols remarked, their eyes no longer scrutinizing her. They finished unpacking their things and tapped a capped marker against the whiteboard. Then they grabbed an eraser and set about clearing the whiteboard of writing. “Your handwriting is usually much better than that, too. Don’t let your boss catch you like this, you could be fired.”

Now that her attention was called to it, Mrs. Darsla couldn’t deny that the content on the board was frighteningly sloppy indeed. Some of it bordered on illegible, even. Was she that shaken, or was it simply that she had shitty writing when she physically couldn’t look at it? She pursed her lips together and took a mental inventory. She felt fine now, at least, which implied that whatever had happened…it had to have been Meagan.

But that was preposterous!

“Some kind of unusual parasite’s been going around,” Mx. Hols muttered. Mrs. Darsla practically shot to attention. “I’d advise a doctor’s visit. As in, right now. Immediately. I’ll cover your classes for the rest of the day.”

“I can’t possibly—” Mrs. Darsla started to object. Mx. Hols gave her a cynical, eyes-half-closed kind of stare that sent chills down her spine and silenced her in an instant.

“Doctor. Now.”