The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Tell all about what happened with Dave,” said Ginnie, AKA Naughty Giselle (having bought her shop from the previous Naughty Giselle, who was not the real Naughty Giselle either. The real Giselle had been retired fifteen years and living like a queen in Rio).

So Charlotte the Harlot, until quite recently known as Margo, told her everything from the beginning—using the shop computer’s word processor. She told about how fun it had been when Al (okay, Aloysius the Terrific) had spray-painted her with that weird red latex stuff, and about the nasty shock she’d got the next morning. Shocked, but not nearly as concerned as she knew she should be—she was pretty sure Al had fucked with her mind somehow. Knew it, actually, what with the whole cum-lust thing, which wasn’t so bad while she was packed up in her box. Time got a bit fuzzy in there.

As requested, she also detailed the action with Dave, right up to the morning wood she’d missed out on because he’d been so keen to get shed of her. When she reached the point, fifteen minutes back, where she’d been re-inflated in the sex-toy shop, Ginnie said, “How ya feeling now?”

Charlotte spun around in her chair. She’d been typing hunt-and-peck with one hand; the other was firmly lodged in her pussy-pouch. She shrugged and gave Ginnie a ‘what do you think?’ look.

“Okay—listen, those collage kids will take care of you real soon. Right now—well, you’ve got me worked up a bit, too. I’ve got the shop closed for lunch, so we’ve got some time play. We’ll take the edge off for both of us,” she nodded an invitation towards a futon conveniently located in an alcove—a stockroom love nest. “And then we’ll get you back in your box.”

Charlotte’s eyes widened at the mention of deflation.

“Well, you did say it was easier to cope with your, uh, urges, when you were tucked up in there, right? Okay, then. Let’s get started.”

She could as well have been an hour in her box, but she knew it was probably the weekend when she felt lips on her shoulder valve and warm breath flooding through her. After the welcome orgasms subsided, she managed to focus and found herself stretched on her back on a dining room table, in what looked like an old house … with not one but two young guys leaning over her. There were some cheap streamers taped to the walls, indicating that a party was imminent, or possibly had limped through recently.

“Wow! Did you see the way she shuddered when I blew her up? Like she was coming?”

“Must be some sort of baffling inside. Man, this doll looks anatomically correct! Well, except for its …”

“Yeah, and her pussy’s exactly the same inside.”

“So it is. But otherwise…”

“Cool, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. But Carl, the thing is—and I want to be clear about this—the thing is, we sent you out with just enough cash to get one of those goofy dolls with the seams and the painted-on faces …”

“Sure, but the babe at the sex shop, Giselle, said she was fresh outa that kind. But she said, no problem, she could rent us this new improved style for cheap—she wrote it up as a promotional deal.”

“You realize that if the guys get drunk enough tonight, they may actually try to fuck this thing …”

“Hell, if I get drunk enough, I might fuck her. Look—she’s even got freckles!” Charlotte was all for that, especially since the boy speaking—Carl—had been the one to blow her (as it were).

“And supremely fine titties,” said the one in charge, kneading the anatomy in question. She decided that he was welcome to fuck her, too. Of course, as she was all too aware, everyone was welcome to fuck her. And once somebody finally did fuck her, she would enjoy only a brief moment of post-coital bliss, after which she would again be hungry for cock. At any rate, there was some hope of getting laid that night, unless real girls showed up. A glance around at the décor suggested she was probably dealing with engineering students, so happily competition was a fairly low risk.

The gentlemen who had rented her continued to subject her to a tactile examination (mostly of her tits, her bum and her several sets of plump lips); after which she was left to her own devices while her hosts bustled about getting ready for the planned festivities. Since it was sufficiently warm in the place, ‘her own devices’ could theoretically include desperate masturbation. However, since the party preparations largely involved dragging around some tubs in which to ice beer, and hunting down (and sampling) squirreled-away heels of liquor bottles from various corners, the guys always seemed to be in her near neighborhood. Just when she thought she could secretly cop a self-feel, one or the other of them would loom over her to further admire her authenticity of construction.

It wasn’t until they set out on a quest for pizza that she was able to scramble off her table top (an awkward process owing to the whole slippery-skin thing). Then with one hand groping her stretchy nethers she launched her own quest—a search for something suitably phallic. The only objects that were up to measure (so to speak) were the various liquor bottles jumbled on a sideboard. A quarter-full jug of Absolut did duty for a while (the sloshing providing an added turn-on), until she lit her eyes on an empty bottle still hiding behind the couch. She wasn’t really a tequila drinker (or rather, hadn’t been, pre-doll—excepting that time Ginnie seduced her), so she’d never come across AsomBroso before. The container was not subtle. It could only be described as wang-shaped … a cock-and-balls combo, really. She fellated the fat stopper for a while, and then felt an overwhelming urge to put the whole bottle inside herself. Thanks to Al, she’d become a genuine sex toy. Her whole body was a receptacle, or rather two of them: a brace of cunts needing to be filled. Preferably with hot, pulsating cock, but in a pinch ….

Only a residual bit of vanity prevented her from cramming the entire thing into her head. Not a problem—she exchanged bottles, top for bottom, and then sat down on the corner of a chair to drive the bulbous base of the tequila container completely inside her stretchy bottom. There was a distinct ‘shloop’ sound as the rubber ring which was mounted just inside her realistic pussy lips clamped shut.

Well, she thought, as she shoved the neck of the vodka bottle in her mouth. That’s nice. Not that there was any of that delightful in and out going to happen down below anytime soon. Plus there was the new difficultly of figuring out how she was going to get the bottle out before the boys got back. And in any case, the only thing that would actually get her over the top was man-meat (or even, as it turned out, hot man-breath). Still, in the meantime …

In the event, she finished up spending the better part of an hour laying on her side, having in her lust failed yet again to notice a chilly draft. When the guys got back and found she’d moved, they immediately realized what had happened.

“Check it out—there’s a vodka bottle in its throat. That cunt Roger’s been here. ”

“What a perv!”

“Extremely. See in its belly? I think it’s that kinky tequila bottle that was lying around here. Look—you can even make out the label.”

“The fucker! How we gonna get that out of her pussy?”

“Can’t you get your fingers in there? You told us you were good at that sort of thing.”

“Ha ha. Listen, there’s nothin’ to get a grip on. The bottom’s almost round.”

“Trust Roger. Just pry her open as wide as you can, and I’ll step on its chest. The bottle should pop it right out.”

“It fuckin’ better. That crazy woman at the sex shop made me leave my driver’s license as security.”

“Whoa! Look at that thing fly!”

“Wait—where’s the big knob-shaped bung?”

“Where do you think? Reach in and get it.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay. God, this bitch is tight. How the fuck did that dickhead force a bottle in here? She’s cutting off the blood flow to my hand.”

“Just think what it will do to your cock tonight.”

“If I get pissed enough.”

“Well, golly, I can’t remember the last time I saw you inebriated. Wait—it was two days ago. All that liquor and weed has fucked up my memory, too.”

“Got it. Whew!” Carl had, indeed, recovered the stopper, having pulled it free in his closed fist.

Charlotte didn’t appreciated getting stomped. Not that it hurt, only she had no idea if she’d be durable enough to stand up to it. But Carl’s groping afterward provided a stimulating dose of man flesh. It was more than sufficient to do the job—she came for the first time since he had re-inflated her, hours before. Frozen as she was, her ersatz pussy clamped down hard enough to leave him with a reddened welt. She was beginning to like this boy.

Her current love interest rubbed his wrist and looked at her thoughtfully.

The party, such as it was, started two hours later. There were a dozen frat boys altogether (including Roger-the-Perv, who denied everything). Each of the twelve claimed to have invited six girls, as agreed. Apparently, each had invited the same six. In the event, there were five, three of whom quickly remembered urgent appointments elsewhere. The two remaining girls both had self-image problems, the one believing she was too skinny, and the other that she was too ample. The boys were all shallow enough to agree, but horny enough nonetheless to ply them with bourbon during a session of strip-go. Over the next hour the seriously outnumbered girls slowly shed their inhibitions, along with their clothing; whereupon all parties agreed that the first was gamin, like Audrey Hepburn or maybe Audrey Tautou, while the second was Rubenesque—Mia Tyler, say. There was common excitement when it became clear that both were willing to get laid—then depression when they paired off with the two most presentable guys, demurely claiming they were only prepared to do one lucky gentleman (each, of course.) Spirits rose sometime later when it was discovered that they seemed unaware of substitutions—‘Audrey’ continued whimpering, “Do me again, Jack” all evening, although no one (including her first partner) was named Jack.

As for Charlotte, she’d been snickered at and groped, at first; but then the real girls had arrived, and she had been unceremoniously dumped in a dark corner. From there, she moped and watched the proceedings. The first couple of couples had coupled privately, in separate bedrooms off the nearby hallway. The others had punished the extensive selection of grog, and then the boldest had slipped away to sneak peeks at the increasingly audible action (“Ohhh, Jack! Yes!"). When these adventurers had not returned, two line-ups had started in the hall.

By then, it had long since been warm enough in the room for Charlotte to un-freeze. When the opportunity finally presented itself, she crept stealthily over to where one of the stragglers had collapsed in an overstuffed chair to doze. She was pleased to find that it was her designated sweetie Carl.

Soon Carl woke up to find that his comrades had apparently pulled his cock out of his jeans and stuffed Charlotte’s head onto it. Which should have been both embarrassing and annoying … except that the fuck-doll’s mouth not only gripped his junk (as might have been expected, given his previous experience), but somehow seemed to be able to massage him in there as well. He became somewhat noisy about it, which got the attention of those at the ends of the hallway queues. After mocking the gasping freak who obviously couldn’t wait his turn with the real thing, they took in the sight of the invitingly realistic (if see-through and red) posterior of the kneeling blow-up doll. A few dares were exchanged, and then, feeling he had nothing to loose, the guy at the very back of Mia’s line-up unleashed his own desperately impatient cock and filled the breach.

With action at both ends, Charlotte was now free to writhe in the throws of a ‘double the pleasure’ train of orgasms—no one would guess she hadn’t been set in motion by their two comrades.

Between the exaggerated bouncing of the doll, and the amazed groans of her second suitor, several more guys changed their allegiance and re-queued for a turn with, as they supposed, the warm-up act.

They had a bit of a wait. What they took to be the selfishness of the first two doll molesters (“Hey Carl, turn’s over, man!") was in fact greed on Charlotte’s part—she had a firm grip on both cocks. She would actually have preferred to pace herself, in order to prolong her orgasmic evening, but she knew the stamina of the dozen available boys had limits, and that her competition would use them up if she didn’t. Indeed, she suspected that the reason Mia wasn’t squealing along with her friend was that she’d begun doubling up on lovers. The horrified thought crossed her mind that, technically, the girl might even be simultaneously wearing out three at once. Charlotte couldn’t compete on that score, but she certainly wasn’t going to let any one of them go before she had milked him dry.

Once the first guys had managed to extract their drained dongs from her, she was obliged to hold her last pose—a sort of wheelbarrow race spread. She couldn’t quite suppress her ecstatic aftershocks, but nobody seemed to notice. Nor did they seem to mind the copious cum she could feel draining away in two milky flows onto the floor. Apparently, among the frat house residents, sloppy seconds were a minor detail, because the next two in line were eagerly moving into position. The first flipped her face up, and stepped in between her legs to dock his dong. The other tipped her head way back, and drove his cock well down into where her throat used to be.

“Check out Larry’s tool,” said the guy fucking her lower cunt. “Ya can see it in there—his knob is somewhere behind that collar the thing’s wearing!”

Charlotte was back on the train to bliss.

It had to end eventually, of course, when once the boys were all shagged out. Having finally recovered his cock from her pussy’s grip, her last paramour rather ungratefully replaced it with the end of a broom handle, and then hoisted her currently spread-eagled body high and marched her across the living room like a captured triumph. Having then propped her in the corner, he promptly collapsed to sleep it off, while she was left to watch as the real girls received considerably better treatment. Taking some care not to kill the golden goose, or rather geese, the last two boys still standing cleaned their groggy guests up with just enough friendly groping to maintain their serenely satiated states. Then the guys restored their clothes (less their panties) as best they were able—much giggling ensued—and ordered them a cab. Given that some waiting was then required, the four settled onto the couch for some relaxed post-orgy play.

Although Charlotte found the broomstick pleasant enough, her own orgasmic high was already wearing off. And she knew that when these guys finally woke up, they might brag about scoring with the girls, but they would almost certainly all pretend that their time spent luvin’ the fuck doll never happened. Which meant that she would be spending her next few days at the frat house as a shunned trophy on a pole ... at least until Carl remembered where his driver’s license had gone. But maybe, she thought, there could be a chance to escape sooner. She reached down to grip the broom, and pushed her light body up and off—now resembling nothing so much as a monkey-on-a-stick. Throwing herself free, she landed behind the couch, with the broom landing silently on top of her. The next step involved creeping around the edge of the room, gathering up suitable bits of clothing.

A crumpled shirt and sweater soon covered her tube top and see-through tits. Glancing back at the couch, she met the drunken gaze of Audrey. Fuck, she thought, busted! But then Audrey said, “God, yes, Jack!” and she realized that the girl was astride her current Jack’s lap, her skirt hiding all but his bare knees. Charlotte winked at her, and launched into a bare-assed commando crawl down the hall, where she scored a pair of trousers, plus an extra bonus: a wallet and cell phone. Then she crossed into the hall closet, where she found a major overcoat and, in a box at the back, the final needful things—gumboots, gloves and scarf, and a disreputable hat. Once suited up, she skulked out of the closet and across to the pizza-box laden kitchen. She was ready—if anything went wrong, they would, with any, luck blame Roger.

After a longish wait (passed with the help of a ketchup bottle), she heard the cab honk. She waited until the front door opened, then launched herself outside from the kitchen. She’d guessed right—earlier, she’d watched as the boys had prompted the girls to remember their addresses, which they’d then written on envelopes. And now, the girls had been sent out alone. She caught up just in time to jump into the front.

The driver had been on service calls to the college frat houses before, but never to this one. So, the engineers have finally got lucky, he thought, as the two pretty (but dishevelled) girls poured themselves into the back. As was usual (at least for the other, more popular houses) each had a cash-filled envelope with delivery instructions in hand. And then the passenger door beside him flung open, and a bulky form jumped in. He was a little surprised, but the coat failed to completely disguise this last girl’s ample chest and bum. Another one—these doofuses were finally on a roll. She turned to stare at him through oversized Ray-Bans, and pushed an empty pizza box at him. On the lid, an address was scrawled in felt marker, along with the instruction, “Please turn the heater up high for our friend.” Odd enough; but between her low-brimmed hat and high wrapped scarf were glimpses of shiny crimson skin.

Possibly, he thought, these guys were into clowns—which, even in his trade, was a kink that was novel to him. However, his company offered full discretion—the motto in the advert read: “What happens in a Blackbird stays in the Blackbird”. And the tips were correspondingly good. Indeed, the silent clown-girl held out a gloved fist full of cash (which, as it happened, she had liberated from the wallet she’d found). Cheered, he turned on the heat and set off to deliver his charges, starting with the slightly unsettling one in the front.

Charlotte stared out the window into the chilly darkness. The next bit was a little tricky. She’d given the driver the address to Ginny’s apartment. All she had to do now was text her friend to let her in when she rang. No problem ... assuming that the cell phone worked, and that Ginny hadn’t gone out on the town, and that there weren’t any druggies or tramps in the doorway, and that she didn’t freeze up stiff before she even reached said doorway. No problem.