The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

He’d somehow been transformed, and though at first I thought it was something happening simply in his mind, like a bad trip, or a delusion, the change in his attitude manifested itself physically, as well. He held himself in a more assertive stance, back straight, chest out, and—as unbelievable as this may sound—he was bigger. I swear. His entire body was pumped beyond pump, every muscle blown to its max, every vein throbbing. He stood as if center stage at competition, an imaginary audience screaming praise. He stood like a man who knew who he was—and knew he was better than anyone else.

“Oh, yeah,” he mumbled, breathing heavily, going smoothly from pose to pose, watching himself in the mirror that was directly behind me. I was on my knees between Prince and his reflection—an enviable position at any other time. “I’m a freakin’ GOD!”

“Prince, what’s happened to you?”

He looked directly at me, and I was almost sorry to steal him away from his reflection. He reminded me of the guy who tackled you in a big football game, liked it, and was anxious to do it again. It was an angry, hungry, competitive, dominant look, and it went right to the core of my being. “Second stage, baby,” he said, a cruel smile on his lips. “A little something to separate the men from the boys. Like it?” He flexed his big legs for me, his impossible legs. “Yeah, all you fags like it.”

“Second stage?”

He screamed. “It’s more INTENSE, dumb-ass!”—flexed his upper body in a crab shot—“And it’s driving me fuckin’ CRAZY! I gotta lift. I gotta fuckin’ LIFT!” Abruptly, he turned away from me and—trying to keep his cool—hurried to the standing leg curl. Looking back, he shouted, “Get the fuck over here! Let’s go!”

I obeyed—and the speed with which I obeyed surprised me—I mean, I jumped when he spoke, like his command and my action were one. Why wasn’t I more afraid of this massive bodybuilder on an obvious ‘roid rage? Why was I getting so turned on?

Standing leg curl machine—Prince wedged himself into it, facing the weight rack, then barked, “Adjust the pad there, fag,” he said to me. “Make yourself fuckin’ useful—it’s why you’re here.”

I squatted down beside him and pulled the pin on the arm of the machine. “Lower,” he growled. “Until it’s right above the ankle. There, that’s good.” I locked the pin into the hole with a loud “clack.” “Now, kneel your fag-ass right there and get ready to change my weight.”

Slowly, I knelt next to the machine, facing him, mere inches from him, until his gargantuan leg filled my vision. He began the movement, curling his leg up, flexing it like it was his biceps—(well, I thought arbitrarily, the hamstrings ARE the biceps of the leg)—and it peaked not unlike that. Rep after rep, flex after flex, his hamstring swelled, and the side-seam of his lace-front football shorts seemed stretched to its limit—I could see the thread begin to unravel.

He switched to work the other leg, panting and erect, and when he lifted it to begin the set, he shifted his massive ass, and the shorts started to tear. I swear, he WAS getting bigger—he was GROWING out of his shorts!

“Fuck!” he shouted to the ceiling, beating out the reps. “FUCK!”

And then the set was over and he pulled away from the machine. Punctuated with a “Yeah!” he smacked it like he’d defeated it, Making eye contact with me as he turned to face the mirror again, smirking that grimacy smile, I could actually see his ego.

There was no disguising his hard-on, either—held tight against his hip by the now too-small shorts. As a matter of fact, pumped as he was, the way he exuded masculinity, the erection seemed only natural, another part of the complete picture—the FULL man. But when he turned his back to look at his hamstrings, he frowned. “These fuckin’ shorts,” he said. “Can’t fuckin’ see anything.” He turned to me, that burning anger in my direction again. “Get the fuck over here and get these shorts off me. I can’t see my god-damned hamstring insertions.”

He continued to pose, looking at himself instead of me. But when I reached for the laces, he quickly slapped my hands away, then in almost the same motion, open-handed me on the side of the head, smacking me to the floor. “Don’t use your fuckin’ hands, faggot,” he said, glaring down at me—that smirk again. “Use your teeth.”

Lying there before him, I was again surprised at how quickly I obeyed—although in this case, I believe it WAS fear of retribution—Prince looked ready to beat me and enjoy it—but I’d be lying if I didn’t say there wasn’t SOME sexual stimulation for me. My own cock had come back to life, not with the throbbing need I felt while on the gear, but with the pleasant, plump awareness of enjoyment.

My god, I was turned-on by the way Prince was treating me.

What the fuck was that all about?

Back on my knees with my hands behind my back, I leaned in toward the shorts as he continued to flex his upper body. He’d steeled his legs in a wide stance, and his cock pushed out to the right, a male in full bloom.

I took the tie-string in my teeth and pulled back until the bow came undone. I allowed the strings to fall so I could focus on the base of the knot, the under/ over twist that stumped us as kids. I tried not to look up at him as I leaned in and bit at it, while his bellybutton—an “out-ie” ( a SEVERE “out-ie”, round like a knob beneath his wife-beater)—poked me in the forehead on his panting inhalations.

I felt his body heat, smelled his scent, invaded his aura, and I pulled the knot loose. “Fuck yeah,” he murmured, flexing his abs. “You like this, don’t you, faggot?” He snorted. “Oh, yeah. How could you not? This is a fuckin’ fantasy come true for you.”

The laces criss-crossed as they ran up the front of the shorts, forming little stacked x-es. With my tongue, I slipped in beneath the top one until my chin was pressing into Prince’s groin. Then I DID look up at him. Holding his arms out to his sides—the classic “relaxed” pose in bodybuilding competition—he looked down on me with that cruel smirk that was looking more and more natural on him, more and more who he truly was—or perhaps transform into.

I pulled my tongue into my mouth and loosened the “x,” causing Prince to inadvertently flex his hips. He growled. Without breaking contact, I slid my chin down until the next “x” was before me. I could feel the root of his cock through the material. We continued to look at each other—seeing more and more deeply—as I repeated the motion with my tongue. This time, as my mouth opened slightly to allow my tongue to move, I pressed my chin a little more firmly against the base of his erection.

His breath began skipping, shaking. “Oh, yeah,” he groaned, reaching up and playing with one of his own pecs, squeezing the mass of muscle and tweaking the nipple. “You DO like this, fag.” I couldn’t tell if he was speaking to me or himself—I think it was true for us both.

I slid further down, over the log that was the base of his cock, until my chin sank into the pillow of his balls and the last “x”—the one on the lower side of his rod—was before me. He flexed his hips again, pushing the length of his cock against my cheek as I slid my tongue beneath the laces. I exhaled into the material, blowing warm, moist air right into his package. His hips bucked again.

“Better not make me cum, Strong,” he threatened. “I still got reps to do.”

It was in that moment that I realized a small bit of power. Maybe not much, but the dawning realization that the guy on his knees controls something, too.

Maybe that had been the lesson of this whole experience.

With my mouth buried in Prince’s crotch, I pulled the laces open.

There was a snap atop the fly, but I bit that open without any trouble at all. With the shorts completely undone, Prince’s muscular belly could expand without resistance. He was so freaking big.

I closed my teeth around the top corner of the shorts and began to pull them down, revealing the glossy white thong he wore beneath, the one that barely, BARELY held his erection. I tugged the front of the shorts down, only to find them caught up on his massive ass. I put my head on the side of his hips, pulled once—went to the other side, pulled again—until the material started to slide down over the heavy, round glutes.

And then, they were stuck on his thighs.

His quads were so pumped, his hamstrings so thick, that I couldn’t get the shorts down over them. “Not so easy now, is it?” Prince chuckled, entertained by my slap-stick comedy, and he flexed them to make it even harder. “These mother-fuckers are HUGE! Aren’t they? Fuckin’ HUGE!”

I had to throw my whole back into it to get the leverage necessary, but finally, they came down—I could hear them tear slightly as they gave way. Sure, they got caught up on his big, blocky calves, but that was hardly an obstacle. Finally, they lay at his feet—just as I did.

“Get up, faggot,” he said, stepping out of them, wearing only the thong, the wife-beater, and his sneakers. The bottom of the wife-beater didn’t quite reach his lower abs, and there was a gap between it and the thong, like a big smile under the sweep of his belly. “I got a set to do. That took way too fuckin’ long—I don’t want to lose my pump.”

When he turned to step into the standing leg curl, I got my first full view of his backside, his hugely muscled ass, the way it connected to his upper legs. I appreciated the artistic line inherent in the human body, the way his lack of bodyfat made every muscle-fiber visible—the slope of the muscle as it wrapped around his buttocks, the generous upside-down, narrow “v” of his hamstrings, the round sweep of his quads blowing out behind those boundries, the christmas tree of his lower back, the unbelievable width of his shoulders tapering to his narrow waist, all of it. Beautiful. I could see why he wanted to see it, why he wanted to lose the shorts.

The wife-beater stretched dangerously across his lats, but gave a full view of his traps, rising thick above his shoulders and neck. The strap of the thong coming up out of the halves of his ass seemed to brag about how lucky it was to be there. He was so nonchalant about the whole thing, like an erect bodybuilder barely held by a scrap of underwear was completely normal.

Around here, apparently, it was—nobody paid the slightest bit of attention to Prince, so caught up in their own sexual-workout fog, or at least trying NOT to be turned on by what was around them, they ignored. In the machine, Prince began his reps. “Put your hand on my hamstrings,” he said. “Feel ‘em flex.”

Kneeling again, I did as I was told, reaching up and tentatively putting my flat hand at the top of his leg, right under the insertion point to the glutes. When he flexed, I could feel the muscle bunch beneath my hand. I could feel the blood flowing through the dense pump. I could feel the heat of him. “Holy shit,” I whispered.

And with my hand on the muscle, HE was able to feel the flex, too. “Fuck, YEAH!” he hollered, squeezing out two or three more. “Doesn’t that feel fucking amazing!?” Then he switched to the other leg. “Now that one. Grab that one. C’mon!”

I had to reach across quite a bit of distance to get to the other leg, and the bottom slope of his ass was in my face—the pump, the light layer of sweat, the salty scent of man. Prince leaned into the machine like he was fucking it, trying to physically dominate it, like a freshman beauty at a fraternity dance. “Fuck!” he panted, serving up the reps. “FUCK!”

The excitement built. Each rep was like another thrust into a submissive partner, powerful and selfish. His hamstrings swelled. And grew—I could feel it in my grip. My hand was forced open by his growth. When he finished the set, he stepped back from the machine, but instead of trying to catch his breath, or stop himself from going too far, he just faced me, hands on his hips, and let me look at his big, erect cock, fighting the confines of the thong the same way his muscles fought the confines of his skin—they just wanted to swell the hell out of there. They just wanted to be free.

“Now, this,” he said, patting himself on the chest, “is what a MAN looks like. Now lemme show you a GOD!”

He reached down and grabbed the waistband of the thong on either side of the pouch. Even though it was level with my face, I continued to make eye-contact with him, looking up over the mound, past that magnificent chest, right into those cruel, arrogant eyes. With them, he made a motion for me to look down, to look at his package, to check out his cock.

His god.

Releasing it, the first thing I noticed as it rolled to point at me was that he shaved himself almost entirely, leaving only a small thatch of pubes at the bottom of his bush—he WAS a natural redhead! His cock was moderately long—not quite as big as mine—but thick, and the softest pink head I’d ever seen (not that I’ve seen that many that close).

I was so caught up in the moment, that I didn’t notice his breathing—the rate, the erratic rhythm. Perhaps if I had...

The second his cock pointed at me, he came. He launched a volley of cum right at my face, a steady stream of thick, white jism spurting across my cheek. He screamed and rolled his head an his shoulders, helplessly beginning to thrust. “Yeah!” he shouted, moaned. “Fuck yeah!”

And it didn’t stop. That volley of cum just kept blowing out all over me, hitting my forehead, my nose, dripping down my chin. When I tried to back up, Prince grabbed me by the hair and held me in place. “Fuck, yeah, you little fucking fag,” he said. “Don’t go anywhere. I got more for ya.”

With his free hand, he grabbed the base of his dick—now spitting in an arhythmic, but unabated pattern—and began slapping my face with it. “This is a fuckin’ cock,” he growled, hitting my left cheek, then sliding across to my right. “This is what you’ve been wanting all along, isn’t it, fag?” By the hair, he shook my head slightly. “ISN’T it?”

I wasn’t gonna cry. I wasn’t gonna give him the satisfaction. My breathing hitched, my eyes became watery, but I didn’t cry—even humiliated, even with his cum all over my face, even with his cock wiping past my lips as it dribbled the last of his orgasm, I held it together.

“Fuck yeah, it is,” he said, answering my question for me, pushing me away. His own breathing had evened out. He seemed calmer, a little more relaxed. “Fuck, that felt good,” he said, more in his normal voice, as he reached into his gym bag and pulled out another small hand-towel.

With a quick gesture, he wiped his dick clean, then slid it back into the thong. Looking at me, there on the floor with so much cum on my face, he smirked, and tossed me the towel. “That’s the second stage,” he said. “What did you think?” He laughed. “Personally, I liked it a lot.”

Chuckling, he turned, gathered his stuff, and went to the locker room. To complete my humiliation, there were a couple of cheers and some light applause from the other guys in the free-weight area as he walked by. Without looking at them, Prince raised his hand and waved, that cocky smirk still on his face.

I didn’t cry. I wiped my face off quickly, getting cum in my eye, my mouth, up my nose—all I could taste or smell was Prince. Prince stung me in the eye. Prince dominated my mouth. Worse that I felt so good—so fulfilled—after having that happen. How could I have possibly enjoyed that?

Why did I find myself holding the hand-towel to my face and breathing in deeply?

I slunk to the locker room as quickly as I could—I tried not to look at anybody. I didn’t want them to see how turned on I was. As soon as I got to my locker, I stripped quickly, making a little stack of all my soiled gym clothes, putting Prince’s cum-stained towel on top, grabbed my soap, and went to the showers.

Mercifully empty, I took the shower furthest away from the one Rook and I shared with Robinson yesterday—was that all my experience here was gonna be? I wondered. Muscle growth through humiliation? I put my head under the hot stream and tried to forget.

It was only when I reached for the soap that I realized another hand was on the dish. Surprised, I looked up to see Prince standing there smiling, naked, stepping into the water without waiting to be invited. I started to speak, but he held a finger up to my lips and shushed me.

He took the soap from the dish and started to build a lather, not breaking eye-contact with me. He was still pumped from his workout—hell, we both were—and his muscles flexed with his motion. His veins bulged.

When he had sufficient lather, he put the soap down and gently took my head in his hands. Smiling tenderly, Prince began washing my face. His rough, callused hands were surprisingly gentle on my skin as he spread the lather over my cheeks, my forehead, and finally over my skull and short little haircut. The he pushed me back under the water to rinse.

I shook my head a little to clear my eyes, then I looked at him again, so muscular, so masculine. Re-working the lather, he handed the bar to me. Silently, he started washing my torso. Quickly getting the idea, I soaped up my hands and started to wash HIM, slowly sliding my hands over his massive, pumped muscles—not rock-hard, like when he flexed them, but rather firm, full of blood, pliable. He felt so good, I forgave him.

And then, he was soaping my balls. Those big, thick fingers massaging my package, running lightly along my dick, I couldn’t help it—I got hard.

Mirroring him, I immediately began to lather HIS balls. He smiled indulgently while I did, but as soon as his cock started to harden, he gently pushed my hands away.

He didn’t let up on me, though. Taking my balls in one hand—pulling and squeezing them ever so slightly—he worked my cock with the other, and the pleasant sensation of another man’s thick fingers on my tool sent me into nearly full erection, mere minutes after shooting the load of a lifetime. I had to place my hands on his pecs to balance myself.

Without releasing my cock, he spun my body around so my back was to him—the classic “reach-around.” One muscular arm around my torso, holding me in place, feeling my hard abs and pinching my tender nipple, the other beating me off with a technique and rhythm known only to him, his own. Another man’s hand on my cock, another man’s style, his breath on my neck as I leaned back into him, feeling the globes of his pecs press into my back—feeling the log of his cock press against my ass.

I was so close—I couldn’t stand it. And then he began to slowly, so slowly, thrust his hips against me.

Just as I was at the edge, his gruff voice whispered “Now, Strong” in my ear. “Now!”

And I shot.

And I shot, and I shot, and I shot.

I might’ve lost consciousness for a second—I might’ve blacked out. If not for his powerful arms holding me in place, my legs never would’ve supported my body.

After I spit my orgasm all over the shower room floor, our bodies separated. I turned to face him, still weak in the knees and overcome with lust. I felt so good, so relaxed, so at peace—the moment stretched out for a while. I ran my hand down the groove of his cleavage and said, “Thank you.”

Prince grabbed my shoulders and stared me straight in the eye. “No,” he said intensely. “Thank YOU. The second stage... it makes you do things... things you wouldn’t normally... anyway, thank you. You’re a good partner. I appreciate it.”

It was the moment for the kiss—the perfect, romantic kiss. The orchestra swelled with the underscoring, the camera moved in for the close-up.

And Prince punched me in the shoulder and stepped out of the shower room, winking while he did it.

No kiss—why was I disappointed by that? Maybe this shit WAS turning me gay.

I saw Prince again on the stairs leading out of the gym as we were both leaving. Dressed in the same outfit he wore when he’d entered, he paused at the base of the stairs and seemed to be considering them when I came upon him. “Nothing worse than these stairs after a leg workout,” he said, not looking at me.

As we ascended, I could see why. My poor, sore legs. My poor, sore PUMPED UP CRAZY legs. At least I had the consolation of walking up behind Prince, his ass almost completely in my face the entire way.

After we were past the doors and security devices, outside, Prince said to me, “What’s your cell number?” He fished his phone out of his pant’s pocket with his right hand as he threw his gym bag up over his left shoulder with the other—he’d put his wedding ring back on. While I told him my number, he dialed it, and suddenly my phone chirped in my pocket. “There,” he said, folding his phone closed and sliding it back where he’d found it, “now you got my number. Give me a call your next leg day. Let’s do this again.”

“Okay,” I said. “Sure.”

“See ya.”

We smacked hands in a “low five” and went our separate ways, him toward 7th and me toward 8th.

I couldn’t wait to work legs again—and who’d have thought I’d ever say that?