The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It was a Friday.

Markus remembered that it was a Friday, because they were already pretty busy days, but this Friday had broken all records.

When he’d started working at the tattoo parlor, he’d been given a choice. He could be paid by the hour, or by each individual tattoo he completed. He’d chosen an hourly rate, something he’d never regretted…

Until that Friday.

There were five unusual things about the tattoo-seeking horde who trickled in throughout the course of the day. Well, it started as a trickle—by about 3pm, it was more of a stampede.

First of all, the majority of them were first-time customers.

Getting tattooed, it’s often been said, is addictive. Few people have exactly one tattoo, and so Markus was used to return clients—people who’d liked his work on their ankle or their forearm, and maybe wanted it touched up, or wanted more work done elsewhere.

First timers weren’t uncommon, of course, but they typically made up less than a third of the shop’s business.

Not that day, however.

Secondly, and this was even more unusual, they were all women. Not just most—all. At the start of the day a few guys dropped by, but as the day went on, the only men in the store were there to gawk at the plethora of women who had poured through the door, waiting for their turn to be inked.

Markus lost track after the first few dozen, but he inked more women that day than he had in the past month combined. After noon, his hands constantly threatened to cramp up, and he made sure to eat a banana during his lunch break.

At first, he’d made small talk with the girls—they were all, it turned out, from the college just over the road. Not particularly surprising; that was how a lot of his clients found him. As the day went on, however, he ceased chatting and just focused on getting the girls inked and out the door—there were more than enough people waiting for him to know that any time spent making small-talk was time being wasted.

After all, they all knew exactly what they wanted.

That was the third unusual thing. Normally, there’d be a bit of back-and-forth; they’d ask to see the book, or inquire about what tattoos were popular at the time.

On that fateful Friday, they sat down and described—in graphic detail—the exact tattoo they wanted. Each girl wanted a different tattoo, but each of them knew exactly what they were looking for.

The fourth unusual thing took him the longest to notice—as the day went on, he realized that the majority of the girls wanted their first tattoo were blonde.

And not just blonde: bottle-blonde, specifically.

It took him a while to recognize the smell, but it seemed that all of his new customers who weren’t already blonde had bleached their hair…that day.

They had apparently woken up, bleached their hair, and then immediately come to him for a slutty tattoo.

And that was the fifth thing that all of these women had in common—they were all sluts.

This wasn’t just apparent through their choice of tattoo—although that was certainly a solid indicator. No, these women were obviously, proudly, blatantly acting like little sluts. Most of them offered sexual favors in lieu of paying for a tattoo—Markus, a proudly gay man, declined…but he was slightly surprised to find how tempting the offer was.

He’d never been interested in women. He’d had a few girlfriends in highschool, mostly as a mask, and he’d even tried straight sex a few times during his first years in college, but it had only served to confirm what he already knew—he was gay, gay, gay as a tangerine. Gay as a male tangerine having anal intercourse with a second, also-male tangerine.

But for some reason, these bleach-blonde women were doing something to him. It wasn’t attraction, exactly—they were missing something, something that was hard to put his finger on. But on more than one occasion, the women emitted small gasps of arousal as he tattooed them, and Markus found himself getting hard at the sound.

Weirder still, after they were tattooed, as they were staring lovingly at their new ink, he found them somehow more arousing.

It didn’t make sense. He enjoyed being a tattoo artist for the art of it, not due to any fetish for tattooed people. Especially not because of a fetish for tattooed women.

Yet something about them, standing there half-naked, blonde, visibly aroused at the sight of their own tattoos…

It was doing something to him. Something he didn’t like.

And, at the same time, something that he really liked.

On more than one occasion, Markus had looked up from his tattoo gun to find the women who were next in line making out…or doing even more than that. The men who’d been attracted by the long lines of scantily-clad blondes had quickly learned that even the crudest flirting was accepted enthusiastically, and Markus was fairly sure that the giggling couples (or, more often, trios) who asked him where the bathroom was weren’t going to be using it for its intended purpose.

At first, he’d barked at the giggling women to stop making out, to remove their hands from under each other’s skirts or tops…but it had seemed to have no effect, and so as time went on he’d given up, focusing instead on his job.

Focusing on his job, trying not to think about his confused, semi-erect penis.

Finally, 9pm rolled around, and Markus told the rest of the queue that they’d have to return the next day (when, to his great relief, he wouldn’t be working). He ignored the offers of sex, oral sex, anal sex, group sex, rough sex, and sex that he was fairly sure was illegal, ushered the disappointed crowd out the door, and turned off the neon sign offering TATTOOS AND PIERCINGS.

After making sure that the bathrooms were empty of lingering blonde sluts and opportunistic dudes, he took advantage of an empty stall, and—to his great embarrassment—got himself off, imagining a tattooed slut kneeling at his feet, swallowing his cock, and bringing him off while he pulled on her blonde hair.

What the hell was wrong with him?

The next morning, Markus awoke surrounded by used tissues. Confused and ashamed, he’d jerked off twice more thinking about the stream of women he’d had through the tattoo parlor the day before—blonde, unabashed sluts, covered in tattoos, on their knees in front of him.

He’d started to jerk off a third time, but images of fucking these women—fucking them, like a straight guy—had muscled their way into his head, and the idea was so off-putting that he’d forced himself to stop touching himself and go to sleep.

Markus wasn’t straight. He only had one tattoo himself—seven dots, across his left wrist, the colors of the pride flag. He was gay; he was proudly gay, and always had been.

So why was he suddenly obsessed with blonde tramps who’d suddenly decided that they wanted to get inked?

In the shower, as he was deliberately refusing to touch his erection, a thought struck him.

Why had they all decided that they wanted a tattoo? And not just any tattoo, but something slutty.

College girls getting slutty tattoos was hardly an earth-shatteringly unusual event, but so many of them getting them, all at once? Wearing the same slutty outfits, sporting the same bimbo dye jobs?

He’d been so swamped by the work (and distracted by his confusing urges) that he hadn’t had time to question it, merely observe how odd it was.

Something was going on. Something had affected the women of Capital College…and whatever it was, it had somehow affected Markus as well.

Drying himself off and pulling a shirt over his brown hair, Markus realized what he had to do—he had to find out whatever was messing with his sexuality, and he had to put a stop to it.

He had to go into campus and investigate.

A combination of good looks, connections with the gay community, and a job as a tattoo artist meant that Markus could garner an invitation to almost any event on campus. It only took a few minutes on Twitter for Markus to learn of the hottest college parties happening that weekend, and before it was even noon he’d made sure he was welcome at all of them.

Until then, he knew he had to get out of the house, else he’d find himself jerking off to the thought of blonde bimbos doing all manner of awful things to him. Awful straight things. He finished getting dressed and decided to head to the mall. Maybe he’d get something new, really make an impression at the night’s parties.

For any guys who were there, he insisted, barely even believing himself.

To his relief, the mall seemed normal. There were no throngs of slutty women, demanding to be tattooed (although it probably helped that the mall didn’t have a tattoo parlor). There were redheads, brunettes—Markus even saw a bald woman.

The world hadn’t gone mad.

Just his tattoo parlor.

As he was waiting for his cappuccino, Markus’s jaw dropped.

Two blonde sluts were walking across the food court, holding tattooed hands, wearing as little as they could without being removed by mall security.

The taller of the pair was wearing a red-and-black pleated dress, fishnet stockings, and a thin white top (which presented her hard nipples to the world).

The shorter girl was significantly wider, but her extra girth hadn’t stopped her from showing as much skin as she could. She wore a denim skirt which she’d obviously hacked away at with a pair of scissors, ensuring that it showed off her thick thighs and threatened to ride up and reveal her huge ass to the entire mall.

She wasn’t wearing any shoes or socks at all, and her generous bosom was barely contained by a checkered shirt which she’d tied around her boobs. With every step, the knot looked as if it was just about to give, and show her boobs off to anyone who was watching.

Which, Markus soon realized, was everyone.

He wasn’t the only one whose attention had been drawn by the duo. It was as if the President had sauntered through—conversations had stopped, and all eyes were on the two girls.

Markus was embarrassed to notice that he was hard once more.

Yet, despite his fascination with the girls, he wasn’t attracted to them, exactly. He was attracted, but…like with the throng of similarly-clad sluts he’d had in his tattoo parlor the day before, there was something missing.

There was something not quite right.

The shorter girl’s cleavage, for example—that was a turnoff. Boobs being a turnoff to Markus was hardly new, but there was something specifically wrong about it. She was a sexy blonde slut, but…her boobs were too big.

Her boobs were too big, she was too wide, and she just wasn’t right.

The taller girl wasn’t much better. She had the “correct” chest size (even though Markus had no idea what he meant by that, he knew it was true) but her nose was too long, her eyes were too wide apart. She was an extraordinarily attractive woman…she just wasn’t the right attractive woman.

Despite the fact that both of them were off, Markus knew that he’d fuck either of them, given half a chance. Hell, he’d fuck both of them.

Or maybe he and a few other guys could fuck them.

Markus had never partaken in a threesome before—he’d had offers, but he preferred sexual encounters one-on-one. But for some reason, painting the two girls in cum, fucking their asses while other men fucked their throats, their pussies, or were jerked off…there was something about the image that felt so right.

He wanted to fuck these women. No, not quite.

He didn’t want to fuck these women. He wanted to fuck the idea of them…

And, by the looks of it, he wasn’t the only one.

As the two women reached the end of the food court, Markus noticed a small group of men following them. Including, to his disappointment, the cute man who had been halfway through making his cappuccino.

Markus cried out after him, but he clearly wasn’t listening. He was totally focused on the two women…and Markus couldn’t blame him.

He considered following after them, but when an image of himself and the barista taking turns being jerked off by the two women held far too much appeal, he decided that he’d much rather just go without his coffee.

At 6pm, Markus finally left the mall and started heading home to prepare for the party—he hadn’t caught sight of the two sluts again, but he had noticed every blonde he passed. And, as he watched people watch people, he certainly wasn’t the only one.

He knew that blonde was widely considered the most attractive of the hair colors, but even that couldn’t explain the amount of attention being given to the fair-haired women walking around the mall. On several occasions, Markus saw people stop talking mid-sentence as a blonde passed by…regardless of how attractive they were.

That wasn’t the only factor, although it was certainly the most obvious one. Women showing more skin were also getting an inordinate amount of attention—especially if they were sporting a tattoo or two. Basically, the closer someone was to the archetype which had filled Markus’s place of work the previous day, the more attention everyone seemed to be paying them.

Including, to his great discomfort, Markus himself.

As he walked back to his one-bedroom apartment, Markus’s cock was practically aching with arousal. All he wanted to do was take a few minutes to relieve himself, picture one of those blonde bimbos splayed out in front of him, picture his hard cock buried deep inside her, watching her scream and gasp with pleasure…

But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

And then, after he did, he still didn’t feel any better. With a sigh, Markus cleaned himself up and got dressed to go to the party.

Something was definitely up, and he was going to get to the bottom of it.

As soon as he stepped into the dorm, Markus knew that he was getting closer to the source of…of it. Of whatever was happening.

To begin with, all the women were blonde. All of them. He had passed some of the cleaning staff on the way in—two Hispanic women in their 60’s—and even they were blonde.

Blonde and horny, by the way that they were looking at him. He shuddered, shooed away the thoughts of the two old cleaners making out around his cock, and went to his first party of the night.

After the obligatory greetings to the two or three people that he vaguely knew, Markus found a quiet corner from which he could watch the party.

It quickly became clear that the campus’s tattoo obsession had continued on his day off. He recognized his own handiwork on a few of the party-goers, but even more had fresh tattoos, tattoos that should have been under plastic wrap…but were instead being shown off as badges of honor.

Busty topless women were the most common choice (and in fact had made up the majority of tatts which Markus had applied the day before) but any trashy tattoo which could be imagined could be found at the party. Tramp stamps, cheeky nicknames, suggestive arrows…Markus had thought he was pushing the limits of good taste when he’d inked a pair of thong panties on someone’s ankle, but after just half an hour at the party he saw ornate calligraphy simply reading “Slut”, and a depiction of Valentine’s day candy with “eat me out” written on it.

Just as in his store the day before, the blonde tattooed women (which was, he soon realized, was every woman at the party) were not even being slightly subtle about their sexuality. Even as he sat quietly and watched, no fewer than eight college girls approached him to flirt…and when that didn’t work, outright ask him if he wanted some head, or to be the first man to fuck them that evening.

He refused, but it got harder and harder each time, especially as it quickly became obvious that it wasn’t just talk. The women that Markus rejected went from man to man, until they found someone interested, and dragged them out of the party to follow through on their promises. The rare blonde who couldn’t find a horny man to say yes to them would instead resort to making out with another bimbo to attract the attention of men.

On a few occasions, they got carried away, and were on the verge of performing a live sex show before their efforts attracted a man or three.

Every bone in Markus’s body wanted to say yes to the propositions, but he forced himself to reject the scantily-clad college girls. He couldn’t succumb. He had to work out what was going on.

To his surprise, declining the offers got easier over time, despite the fact that he found himself getting more and more turned on as the party continued.

Until he met her.

“Hi!” she said with a giggle. “My name’s Amanda.”

“Oh!” Markus said, totally thrown by the sudden burst of lust he felt as the college girl introduced herself.

Intellectually, he had no idea why this girl’s words affected him so much. Physically, she was nothing special—a little fuller on top, a little less booty. She was one of the shortest girls at the party, and her hair was dyed—not even particularly well.

And she only had one tattoo—that he could see, at least.

But the moment he heard her name, something came across him, and it was a true effort to refrain himself from pulling the horny teen onto his lap and locking lips with her.

“I was wondering if you wanted…”

“No!” Markus said, aware that he sounded slightly panicked. But if the girl finished her question, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to resist accepting her offer.

“Okay,” she said sadly. “Thanks!”

Markus watched Amanda closely as she returned to the dance floor. The party was slowly turning into an orgy, as the girls got less subtle about their intentions, and couples were returning from their private encounters wearing less clothing than when they left.

He soon became aware of a pattern emerging—all the women were blonde, tattooed, scantily clad, and proudly offering their bodies to the men at the party. But where some were having an easy time getting all the attention that they wanted, others—like Amanda—were finding it much harder.

The difference between the women was easy to be aware of, but hard to spot. At first, Markus just followed his penis—the women that he was most attracted to were also the ones which were having the most luck. The commonalities were subtle, but the longer he watched, the more he realized what they were.

Natural blondes; that was a big one. Natural blondes could barely walk through the door without being swamped by a group of horny men…who they more than happily left with. Markus saw about a dozen blondes taking large groups of men away from the party, and none of them returned.

Breast size was the next one. This took Markus much longer to notice; he wasn’t accustomed to sizing women up by their bust, but once he started looking, it became obvious. Women of a certain breast size were—for some reason—infinitely more attractive to the crowd. It wasn’t large tits, it wasn’t small tits—it was a particular size.

Height was much the same. Not too tall, not too short—just right. And even as he intellectually tried to analyze the data, that was what it came down to for Markus. Some women were just…right.

That was why it had become easier to decline the offers of the women who approached him—the more “right” they were, the faster they got snapped up. All that was left were…well, the rejects. Even now, he could see the innately “wrong” women being forced to pair off, unable to attract even a man between them, let alone the five or six that natural blondes could accrue without even trying.

And then…there was Amanda.

Markus watched as Amanda moved from man to man—she was clearly unable to be heard, and so she instead gestured to people what she wanted to do to them. She got a few perfunctory gropes, but most of the men she approached were almost immediately distracted by one of the girls returning to the party.

Finally, she seemed to find luck. She pulled a male student down so that she could whisper in his ear, and suddenly his eyes lit up, and his attention was wholly on the short girl. He grabbed a few of his friends, whispered in their ears, and almost immediately the whole crew was leaving.

Glancing at his watch, Markus realized that his next party was due to start in the next half-hour. But first…he had to know what made Amanda so special.

“Oh!”

Despite the fact that he’d only had the briefest of conversations with her, Markus recognized Amanda’s voice immediately. It was as though it had somehow been burned into his brain; he’d never forget that moment when she’d introduced herself.

“My name’s Amanda.” Such a common phrase shouldn’t be so…sexy.

He’d walked out of the party, into the dorm hallway, and been shocked at what had met him.

The sounds of pleasure, eminating from every dorm. As he walked down the hall, it was almost overwhelming—men grunting, women panting with pleasure, flesh slapping against flesh…

It was as though the entire school was having sex, and the party he’d been at was just a meeting ground.

Several couples—or, more often, groups—had accidentally (or perhaps deliberately) left their doors open, and Markus couldn’t help but stare at what he saw. Naked, blonde, tattooed bimbos, on their hands and knees, desperately trying to please as many cocks as they could.

Just as Markus had been imagining.

One girl had particularly caught his eye—“Kimberly”, her slutty tattoo suggested her name was. “Kimberly The Proud Slut,” to be specific. There was…there was just something about her.

Not the name, of course. The name was all wrong. It was so wrong, in fact, that getting it so prominently tattooed on her ass was probably a poor choice. It was an immediate turnoff.

But Kimberly seemed to get away with it, because everything else about her was so right.

It was hard to gauge her height, as she knelt in front of three men, blowing one while she jerked the other two off. The measurement of her tits was equally hard to discern—her breasts were coated in cum, masking her true cup-size.

But everything else…it took all Markus’s willpower not to join the long line of men waiting for their turn with Kimberly.

No, he told himself. Follow…Amanda.

Just the name was enough to make him smile. Again, it wasn’t quiiiiite right…but it was so damn close.

“Oh!”

Amanda’s voice was enough to distract Markus from the near-perfect (if terribly-named) Kimberly, and he began running down the hall to where the sound of her pleasure was coming from.

Markus was…disappointed.

Until you see a really bad film, it’s hard to identify what makes a good film good. There’s the obvious—a plot that keeps you on the edge of your seat, characters you love (or love to hate), music that hits you right in the ear-soul…

But then there’s the stuff you take for granted: acting, pacing, quality of sound.

Until Markus watched Amanda trying to give head, he hadn’t realized how effortless the other girls in the hallway had made it seem. They’d been…not “elegant”, exactly, but they clearly knew what they were doing.

They clearly knew what they were doing, and loved it.

Amanda, meanwhile, was enthusiastic, but…well, unskilled.

Unskilled to the point of embarrassing.

To their credit, the three guys she’d dragged into the dorm room were hardly complaining. But Markus could tell from the look on their faces that they too were disappointed. They’d expected a goddess. Someone with a name that good—“Amanda”—should be a goddess.

Markus wanted a goddess.

Instead, they’d been stuck with…well, an embarrassment.

Markus watched as Amanda choked on the cock in her mouth, and saw the man wince as she accidentally bit down slightly.

“Sorry!” she said, pulling the cock from her mouth to make sure that her teeth hadn’t pierced the skin.

“That’s okay,” he said through a grimace. “Just keep going…Amanda.”

A dreamy look came across all three men’s faces at the name, and Markus was surprised to find that he was grinning just at the sound of it as well.

Amanda.

What a great name.

What a lousy cocksucker.

“Oh, Amanda,” the man moaned as she struggled to take more than half of his cock down her mouth.

“Amanda,” another of the men panted, as she arrhythmically tried to jerk him off while she poorly sucked cock.

“Amanda, you little slut…” the third man grunted, as he jerked off onto her unsatisfyingly large tits.

“Amanda…” Markus found himself whispering, as he watched from the doorway, his cock begging to escape its confines and cum all over the college girl with the beautiful name.

But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

And, with a great amount of effort, he didn’t.

Markus dragged himself away from the dorm room, away from the entire block.

There was another party on that night—this one in the faculty lounge—and Markus needed to get away from all these slutty, bimbo students…before he did something he’d regret.

Before he took the first step down a road that he wasn’t sure he’d be able to return from.

Shrugging on his blazer, Markus entered the faculty lounge. He’d dated one of the Professors of Philosophy for a few months, and so he was still in contact with enough of the staff to get an invite to their monthly soiree.

As soon as he entered, he was unsurprised to find a bevvy of blonde women looking back at him. Even the dean of the school, Mrs McGill, had dyed her hair.

If the fact that she was over fifty didn’t make that weird enough, her African-American heritage certainly did.

But unlike the students he’d just left, the women here seemed to be acting with decorum. Perhaps it was the fact that none of them seemed to be the “right” age, and very few of them seemed to be anywhere near the right build, but it was obvious that the staff were still completely in control of themselves.

They were still showing more skin than one would expect from women of their age—and stature—but it didn’t seem to be creating the same sexual frenzy that Markus had found at the student party.

With a sigh of relief, he greeted the staff he did know, introduced himself to a few of the staff he didn’t, and started subtly investigating.

As it turned out, he wasn’t the only person who had noticed something amiss. The women he spoke to carefully refrained from mentioning their new hair color, but they all agreed that they’d noticed something was amiss on the campus. The boys, they said seemed distracted, and the girls…”unfairly popular”.

Markus raised one eyebrow at their phrasing, but before he could follow up, noticed that something across the room seemed to have caught the attention of half the party-goers. He quickly excused himself and scurried over to see what was going on.

To his dismay, it seemed to just be a particularly popular anecdote being told by one of the professors. Markus had turned around to continue the promising conversation he’d been having with the female members of the maths department, when he heard someone questioning the storyteller.

“You don’t mean to say she was wearing…nothing at all?”

“Quite right,” the man responded. “Well, under her skirt.”

A soft sigh left the mouth of everyone listening, as they presumably imagined what the professor was describing.

“So you could see…”

“Mmm,” the professor said, smacking his lips. “And guess what?”

“What?” one of the female staff asked, almost frantically. “What??”

“She was totally. Shaved.”

“Oh!”

“The second row, you say?” one of the men listening said dreamily. “God, I have a class in there on Wednesdays. I won’t be able to take my eyes off the second row, knowing that…knowing that…”

He sighed.

“She was there.”

“Who?” Markus asked, but the man telling the story didn’t seem to hear him.

“Tell me, Professor Moore,” another fellow said. “Have you ever…”

He trailed off, but Moore seemed to understand his question nonetheless.

“No I have not,” the professor replied wistfully. “But, having seen what I’ve seen, you know I’ve spent many nights dreaming about it. At the time, I thought…I couldn’t. It would be wrong. But now…”

Again, the entire crowd sighed with pleasure.

“Excuse me,” Markus tried again. “But…who are we talking about?”

“Who do you think, boy?”

The very question seemed to make Professor Moore indignant, and he gesticulated slightly too enthusiastically with his wine glass, spilling some of his drink on the floor.

“Who else would we be talking about? Her!”

“Her?”

“Her! Amber!”

Markus’s eyes widened at the name, and several of the men around him softly moaned at the word.

Amber.

Amber.

That was it. That was what he’d been lusting after since Friday morning. He realized now, the moment that first blonde bimbo had entered his store, that was the name he’d unconsciously been wanting, lusting for.

That name was…it was…

It was right.