The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

There was just something about the dark, rich scent of brewed coffee, shots of espresso, and frothy milk that called to professional mind controllers. Every serious Practitioner tended to set up their own coffee klatch as a sort of office, harem, and base of operations, staffed by a crew of busty barristas leaking sex juices beneath aprons. Each with their own cozy corner table that never seemed to get taken, strategically positioned to catch sunlight, but not too close to a window.

Every Practitioner’s caffeine lair had its own quirks. Mr. Vise had visited milk-themed coffee shops, where waitresses with ten-ton tits cooed and mooed as they splurted hot cream from their ever-leaking nipples. He had visited schoolgirl-themed shops where every girl entered with a caffeine urge, and left in a short plaid skirt and a raging case of teenage libido. There were brain-drainers, where the longer a customer sat and sipped, the more IQ points would drip out of their nose, until every table was full of glassy-eyed bimbos stroking themselves with abandon.

Few of these establishments made a decent cup of coffee.

So, in forced retirement, Mr. Vise had constructed his own cafe, and paid attention to more then the hem length of the girls. It was a high palace of espresso, with personally selected batches of Kona and Blue Mountain flown in by courier, roasted on-premises, then brewed in small batches by a well-trained and highly knowledgeable staff.

Mr. Vise hadn’t fucked any of the wait staff in weeks. It was enough to sit in his booth, read the paper, and enjoy the view as his girls shifted unknowingly through dozens of looks and outfits.

Ordinarily it was enough.

Today he was... annoyed.

“Just let me grab ahold of one mind,” Wren whined. “It will be a triumph of precision. You will marvel at it. Literally. Marvel. Your eyes will ogle.”

“No,” Damien said.

Wren’s stage baritone and endless moaning grated ordinarily. In the hellscape between the sun and the asphalt they burnt a track across Damien’s nerves.

“I’ve already thought—”

“No!” Damien ordered. Grit from the freeway scratched his throat. “Look. Think. You’re compelling the subject to approach you. They are in a car. A car. Traveling at eighty miles an hour. Think that through.”

Wren’s face, always pinkish, with salmon overtones, had turned bright red in the heat and sun. And that despite wearing a ridiculous white hat with a frisbee brim. “I’ve thought this through,” he said, wounded. “All I impart is a sudden urge to find a bathroom. That’s all. They’ll pull into the rest stop here, stop, and then we’re on our way with a new chauffeur. Perfect.”

Damien glared at their rental Mercedes. He was a world-class Practitioner, a reality-bender and mind-changer, and none of this made any difference to a car with engine trouble. Giving the motor a set of high-quality tits and a wardrobe change would help nothing.

“Fine, go ahead,” he told his subordinate. Damien had not wanted to bring Wren along. The man was archaic in Damien’s Organization. Every mission he went on ended with a makeshift brothel, a river of ridiculous sex toys trailing in his wake. But he knew Mr. Vise, Mr. Vise was willing to talk to him, and so he had made this meeting possible.

And now they were late. Late to a meeting with Mr. Vise. The man who had rewritten New York in ‘77, who had personally loosened up Europe, the inventor of the wakeup blowjob. He was at least a demigod. Well over half of Damien’s own anecdotes began with “Mr. Vise once...” And half of Damien’s bookshelf was taken up by the man’s crabbed, spindly handwriting, with illustrations, regarding the proper and economical way to make a girl squirm and moan.

Wren walked over to the side of a road. His face twisted in the grunting, constipated expression he used when he practiced. A minivan suddenly wobbled and tottered, crossing the yellow lines and nearly pile-driving an aging Ford Taurus traveling in the opposite direction. Then the minivan sped up, leaving Wren and Damien behind in a white wall of exhaust and smoke-dust. Damien caught a partial glance of a 40-ish woman in glasses, eyes wide, hunched forward over the wheel.

“Well?” Damien growled.

“Partial success,” Wren reported. “I mean, she pissed herself. But I am ready and excited to try once more!”

“Ummm... can I, uh, get anything for you? Sir?” Amanda asked.

Mr. Vise glanced up from the crossword. “Dear, what’s two words, twelve letters, “A tony—and david—address?”

“Um, I really don’t know, sir... should I?” She blinked owlish, freckled-rimmed eyes. They were bright, wide, and innocent.

Amanda was going through the Horny Schoolgirl phase of her cycle, characterized by turning into a flighty scatterbrain, with an attention span about as durable as her virginity. Schoolgirl Amanda was impressed by glittery, shiny things. She was able to compute basic sums, given time and a pad of paper, and all of her fingers. She spent a lot of time telling herself to stop chewing on her nails and to not grope her boobies in front of customers. You could rent her for an hour with one stick of bubblegum.

The girl squirmed, of course. Mr. Vise understood entirely. Nature had blessed the adolescent, then kept on blessing, long after anyone else would’ve yelled “stop!” Her boobs had, today, been packed into a pink bra with three backstraps, squashing the taut and white skin out either side of an off-shoulder yellow shirt that was just this side of pure plastic.

“Anyway, uh, here’s your usual, Mr. Vise! An Americano, sugar, uh, and I forgot a spoon. I’ll go get a spoon,” the girl twirled, which sent her little yellow-blue skirt flying. She wore pink underwear, along with nervous, squirming legs that were quite too long. The poor thing hadn’t managed to get the hang of short skirts, bless her heart. The entire coffee shop knew what color of underthings she had picked out within ten minutes of the start of her working day.

Mr. Vise kept his eye on her. True to form, the tart took the chance behind the counter to rub desperately at that itch in her slit, the one that never quite went away. With her nipples rubbing against synthetics, and her entire body tingling in the cool air-conditioned air, Amanda’s libido was pretty much revved up all the time. She got by with quick finger fucks in the bathroom, letting customers grope her tits behind the back of the store, and frequent jaunts to her car for vibrator sessions.

Mr. Vise checked his watch. His guests were twenty minutes late. Unacceptable. And worse, they knew it would be unacceptable. A deliberate snub? But then, why set the meeting?

A customer pinched Amanda on the ass. She simultaneously squeaked, giggled, and shuddered with a little orgasm that worked its way slowly through her stacked frame. Mr. Vise watched her make her way into the back of the store, shaking with aftershock giggles, her slit sopping wet. She had been a schoolgirl for about a week, which meant that Amanda would switch over to Japanese Exchange Student in a few more days. Already her hair was darkening at the roots, from an ash blonde to a midnight black, and her pupils had lost their bright blue.

“Arigato! I mean.... uh... thanks, Mr. Vise!” Amanda deposited the spoon. She couldn’t get any wetter, blatantly rubbing herself against the sharp edge of the table, desperate for stimulation. The idea was that he would cup her sodden pussy, work a finger inside, bang her on the table while she yipped and moaned and bucked around it. Then an incredibly enthusiastic blowjob, to follow.

Mr. Vise sighed. “Amanda, I think I’ll take this To Go. Please fetch a cup.”

He smacked her ass, kindly-like, on her way back. Just to keep in the game.

Chloe had been fervently and entirely against picking up the hitchhikers. She had argued against them in monotone, legs crossed tight like a rusted lock, hunched in the passenger seat. Nevertheless, they now sat in her back seat. At least one was probably an axe murderer, most likely the smooth corporate one with the light black goatee and the Blackberry on his belt. The other one was just disgusting, fat and red, and he smelled like discontinued aftershaves.

“Martin, really, I can’t thank you enough,” Damien said, from the back seat, clearing his throat with Chloe’s bottle of Aquafina. “I didn’t even know that people under twenty-five knew what a hitchhiking thumb meant.”

Martin, their driver and Chloe’s boyfriend, was a relaxed guy with big sunglasses and a quiet smile. He seemed to be tapping a continual rhythm on the wheel. Which made his frigid girlfriend a contrast. Damien had seen more open body language on corpses.

“Please rest assured that we are NOT escaped mental patients,” Mr. Wren rumbled. He had been shoehorned into the back seat, behind Chloe, and had both knees shoved into her bucket chair. From Chloe’s expression, right into her shoulder blades.

“Where are you two going?” Chloe said, over the roar of the air conditioner. They passed a sign that read “Access Road : 1 mile.” “Access Road?” Chloe suggested, sweetly. “We can let you out at Access Road.”

“Not far, not far,” Wren said. “By the way. Something in your teeth. Just a little something. A flyspeck. Check your mirror.”

Chloe frowned. She didn’t really care... but she didn’t WANT anything in her teeth... but there was nothing there even when she checked, except perhaps the slightest black speck.

She licked at it. There. Flyspeck gone.

Problem solved.

“We’re going to... Wren, what was the name of the town? Elba?”

Chloe turned back to the mirror, frowned, and pursed her lips. Now that she thought about it, her makeup was starting to fall apart, even in the cool of the air conditioning. Usually for a long car ride like this one the girl just put on some light lip gloss and a dust of concealer, casually. But the lip gloss had long been licked away, and her lips looked barren and thin. The girl opened up her purse and rummaged for a stick.

“It is Elba,” Mr. Wren said. “I, ah, I have the directions around here somewhere. Have you heard of this mapquest website? Very remarkable.” He started to pat on the many pockets concealed within frayed, patched clothes, showing off discolored brown or yellow sweat stains.

The girl in the passenger seat huffed. All she could come up with in the purse was a stick of burgundy red lipstick, practically formal wear, and totally out of place on a car ride in the middle of nowhere. Still, it’s all she had... so Chloe expertly untwisted the top and slathered her lips in a pert, dark red rainbow. She blew the mirror a practice kiss. Better. A little too sexy, but better.

Of course, that left her eyes totally bare. It didn’t work at all. Chloe dived back in for some mascara.

“Here!” Wren exclaimed, pulling the piece of paper out. It was nearly dripping with his sodden sweat. He tried to hand it to Damien.

“I’m not touching that. Just read the directions to Martin,” Damien instructed.

“Keep the car from going over bumps, okay, Martin?” Chloe murmured. She teased at her lashes with the wand, pulling them out to full length. Then frowned: she really should’ve put on the eyeliner first, then smudged in the eyeshadow for that perfect, smoky-eyes look. Excellent in the bedroom, or, apparently, when driving down the freeway. She pulled product after product from her purse, capping and uncapping bottle after bottle, hunting for perfection.

Her red lips shone in the sun.

When she was done—and after another powder of dust across her cheeks—a much relieved Chloe reviewed her reflection from the tiny mirror above the dash. She was already feeling better. Much better, actually—with the powder and the gloss on she felt positively feminine and energized, glowing in that sexy way makeup could make a young woman feel. And the axe murderers in the back had subsided to a low bicker, grousing over smudged and illegible directions.

Of course, she still had a ways to go to look perfect. First of all, Chloe yanked the ratty scrunchie from her hair, releasing it from the travel ponytail. What had she been thinking, anyway? Any sudden stop and her head would bang against the back of the chair. She regarded the little black piece of elastic with distaste—she had beautiful dark black hair, and she was keeping it tucked away in a harness? Inexcusable. Chloe, on impulse, lowered her window and tossed it into the breeze.

She giggled a bit.

Perfect.

Mr. Vise picked up his drink, his newspaper, carefully folded around the crossword puzzle, and placed his pen back in his shirt pocket. He wasn’t angry, which was unusual. Used to be that any little thing would set him off in a simmering rage, a whirlpool of fury that would end in with entire towns sprouting tits and asses, fucking desperately in the streets. There was one place in Florida where the girls still all lisped, and sank to their knees if a guy so much as smiled at them. And that just because his diner waitress there was rude.

Apparently he had run out of angry.

Fair enough. It was a self-indulgent emotion in a mind controller. What had he to be angry about? The endless parade of cock-hungry girls? The ultimate power? Did he need to be called Master by yet another redhead?

A burst of giggling and moaning interrupted him just before he made it to the front door.

One of the male teachers at the secretary school two streets down had decided that enough was enough with the dripping puff of female that was Amanda. He had spun her around, skillfully, and flipped up the back of her useless skirt. Her panties ripped off easily enough— cotton worked differently in Elba—and the teacher took a moment to admire the nice and pink slit Amanda presented.

Then he started to fuck her.

Mr. Vise didn’t particularly care for his technique. It was halfway brutal, slamming his cock to the base, then slowly withdrawing as Amanda shivered around the length. He vaguely recognized the man as a Mr. Spencer. Mr. and Mrs. Spencer had been imported just a few weeks ago, part of the neverending rotation that ensured a little variety. The teacher still had the befuddled expression that accompanied new arrivals, but also the expanded cock and bottomless sexual stamina. His wedding ring glittered on the hand bracing Amanda’s ass.

Oh well. Mr. Vise sat back down. He had all the time in the world, after all.

Chloe rechecked her teeth. No black specks, thank god. It had been a lot of trouble to fix her lipstick to match her pearly whites, then her makeup to match her lipstick, then her hair to match her makeup. Of course, this meant that her entire wardrobe was now wrong wrong wrong.

A tedious retread she had worn dozens of times, without half a thought as to how it set off her boobs, or complimented the dusky black strands of her hair. She felt gross whenever a strand brushed across the top of her blouse. Perfectly made up, with a china doll face and bright, innocent eyes, and she was dressed like a shlump on a cross-country bus. Horrible.

The two boys in the back seat were still growling at each other. Her delightful, so-sexy boyfriend interrupted them gently.

“Guys?” he said. “Did you say something about a Prince street?”

“That or a Prints street or a Pince Street. And we don’t know for sure because someone sweats like an exercise video from 1985,” Damien snapped. Chloe shivered under the lash of his voice. It was like authority run through a distiller, and bottled up.

“Because we’re coming up on a Prince street right now,” Martin said. He casually looked over at his girlfriend, and Chloe tried to melt him with a winsome, boy-pleasing, promise-making smile. He was such a sweet guy. And to think, he had put up with her many imperfections for so many years. The sweatpants. The loose jeans. The way she would cover up her shoulders with... with clothes!

Damien craned his neck over Chloe and regarded the freeway exit. The freeway featured scrub brush to the left, and forgotten vineyards to the right, with nothing else until a distant range of dead hills. There weren’t even many other cars on the highway—although they had passed Mr. Wren’s unfortunate minivan driver some time ago, still looking mortified and damp.

It was a dead wasteland—and yet, the freeway overleaf featured a Starbucks, a Nordstrom’s outlet, and what looked like a mom-and-pop lingerie store called “Bare Essentials.” There was a sign outside that read “Last bustiers for three hundred miles!!!”

“This is it,” he ordered. “Get off here.”

Chloe reached a decision. She had to get this shirt off. She wasn’t naked underneath it, after all—she had on a nice black tanktop with built-in bra support. Yes, it was basically sweat-soaked to her body, and she would be confronted by roughly an acre of white tit if she looked down. But so what? Her boobs were flawless, made out of creamy skin without blemish. From top to tits she would be a skincare commercial, an idol of youth and incredibly inviting sensuality. Her other option was to be a bitchy ride-mate. An easy decision.

The girl tore her shirt over her head. Sniffing, she tossed it out the window, too. There.

Except now she had to contend with her pants. They were GREY. And long and boring and ugly. It was like she was wearing a bruise. If they didn’t come off immediately there was going to be a problem. The very thought of keeping them on made her juicy and moist and hot and wet. Or maybe it was the thought of taking them off. One of those two, anyway. She was definitely juicing her panties, either way.

The large man in the back seat—the one that smelled faintly of sour coffee—handed her a pair of scissors, pulled somewhere from his long coat. “This will help,” he said, grinning.

Smiling to the best of her ability, desperate not to smudge any bit of makeup, conscious of making every movement, every word as sexy and cute and perfect as possible, Chloe started to cut up her pants.

Amanda moaned and giggled, and Mr. Vise appreciated each little titter. He had crafted her adorable melange of whispers and cries, after all, and it had been a long process getting them exactly right, to produce the exact blend of surprised moans, excited shrieks, the overall carefree patter of a girl getting her first decent fuck, the first one that really melted her mind and left her a shivering wreck. It was girlish, and, at the same time, the full-throated screams of a new whore.

It had taken him years to get right. Ordinarily, and it was a curious fact, but modified girls usually resorted to guttural grunts with each fuck soon after their descent into cock-mad bimbosluts. Even if changed back, when they got a cock in them, it was just porno noises. And that was just so artificial, like he was watching a triple-X movie. He could’ve just made her talkative, in an artificial “fuck me hard” sort of way, but that was a bandage on the problem.

These things were worth doing right.

Mr. Spencer seemed impressed, or at least his rhythm was speeding up.

“Why did you use Flaw?” Damien murmured, to his junior partner. They both watched Chloe diligently cutting a path through her old pants, perhaps a handsbreadth down from the waist, and no more then a pinkie on the side. These were going to be very short shorts. Really more like lingerie, which was clearly fine with Chloe.

“What’s wrong with Flaw?” Mr. Wren said, defensively. “I like Flaw. I’ve used Flaw many times before, and the girl always ends up perfect. That’s the entire point of Flaw.”

There was something to that, Damien conceded. Even energetically ripping her own pants away, Chloe was diligent to prevent any possible smudge. She kept her lips wet, just in case a guy wanted to kiss them. And her tits were always pointed in the best possible manner towards her quieted boyfriend, just in case he wanted to grope them. And she wasn’t thinking too hard, because she had to be alert to his needs. She was dumbing herself down and tarting herself up in the unending quest to be just... perfect...

“Because Flaw doesn’t stop,” Damien said. “Wasn’t it you that left Flaw in place on those twins in Atlanta? By the time we got back to them, they each had three tit implants, wore nothing but satin and silk, and spent five hours a day on hair and makeup. They gave practice blowjobs so that they would give better real blowjobs.”

“I fail to see the problem,” Mr. Wren, with utter sincerity. He became defensive. “Look, Flaw is simplicity itself to install, the girl runs it herself, and it works even on a car ride. I couldn’t use Pink because we didn’t have any bubble gum, Milk would have made the car and myself unacceptable drenched, and Tingler is frankly too loud for my hearing, which has already been damaged by previous uses of Tingler.”

Their seatmate managed to cut free an entire pant leg, and hissed, satisfied. The leg underneath was nice and white and smooth. Thankfully. Otherwise Flaw girls had been known to start shaving it straightaway. Damien erased her pussy hair, just in case. Shaving in a car seat was a little too risky.

“Just... use something more discrete, more elegant,” Damien said. “Like Sunburst. Or Scent.”

Mr. Wren shook his head. “Scent was too tricky with all of us in the car. And what is Sunburst?”

“It’s a clever one,” Damien said. And a personal favorite. He had a beach house. “You know that drunk, pleasant feeling you get just lazing in the sun? That’s the change agent. Works best on lifeguards. They just lie in the sun, inflate, and drip. The only problem is dehydration. And the brain-drain gets fairly intense, not that you care.”

Chloe gasped, satisfied at last. She had carved a ragged pair of shorts out of her oldest pair of pants, and succeeded in transforming them into too-tight strips of battered cotton failing to hide the curve of her ass. Even sunk in a bucket seat, it was a well-made posterior.

“Sunburst,” Mr. Wren mused. “I will keep that one in mind. And I see that we’ve almost arrived.”

The road had passed through different climates into a small valley just behind the crook of a hill. The bald range had hidden a small forest of broadleaf trees, through which the road ran, dappled with sunlight and shade. It was deeply pleasant, like the inside of a car commercial, and Damien had no doubt whatsoever that the weather outside was perfect for shorts and miniskirts.

A truck passed them, headed the other way. It was a diaper service.

“Wren, do up her tits. Nothing too big. I’ll get her shoes done and take out Flaw. I’ll put in Bimbo Mommy,” Damien ordered. “Martin looks like a decent Dad. And hustle. We’ve got to find Mr. Vise before he gets upset. I’ve got something he needs to see.”

Mrs. Milly Spencer kept getting a later and later start on her day.

For the first two years of marriage she had been up and out the door in about half an hour. Wake up. Stumble into the bathroom. Brush hair. Brush teeth. Dress. Cereal. Go, get a cup of coffee on the way to work. Oh, and give Jonathan a peck on the cheek.

Then they had moved to Elba, fleeing the recession. The idea had been intelligent. She would finish up that Chemical Engineering degree at American Pill, the biotech concern, a very welcoming group of guys looking for a little diversity in the workforce. Jon would teach at secretary school and bring in the money. A good and dependable plan for a couple of young professionals.

But... things hadn’t quite worked out that way.

Milly found herself dawdling in the mornings, swaggering slowly out of bed, staring long and hard at her face in the mirror, examining it for blemishes. She had started to supplement the swish of her bright blonde hair with carefully applied lipstick, had started to seriously get into eyeshadow, had followed the youtube tutorials for the “fresh, natural look” with rigid strokes of the makeup brush. Frankly, she could no longer start her day without a consultation with a growing makeup kit.

She had still made it to work by 9. For the first few days.

Then wardrobe decisions became ever-so headache-y. It had been previously so simple to snatch separates from a rotating M-F schedule of shirts and pants, all in neutral colors. But the girls in Elba were always so brightly colored, in such pleasant fabrics, and they seemed so happy and cheerful, that Mrs. Spencer kept coming home with bundles of clothes, bought at super-bargain prices from some of Elba’s many female fashion stores. The new selections overwhelmed her, filling her mornings with brain-pounding decisions about dresses v. skirts, belted skirts v. non-belted, and other incredibly difficult decisions. Even just resorting to whatever made her cheerful didn’t seem to help. She kept getting to work at 9:30, or even 10, wearing something bright yellow paired with something bright blue.

The guys at work didn’t seem to mind. She was getting lots of compliments. Explicit ones, even.

But then she started to get horny.

Their sex life had improved shortly after arriving in Elba, but lately Jonathan had his dick buried in his wife’s snatch until late at night, pounding her on the bed until she collapsed in a happy puddle of juice. Then she would wake up horny, and find her throat scratching and itching until she soothed it with a nice white bath of Jon’s ever-spurting cum. Which seemed to have a talent to get in her face, her hair, her swollen tits.

Basically, she was a sticky mess every morning. And that meant a shower.

But the pounding water led to hand-play in the tub. Long, extended handplay. Sometimes she took two showers, or one that lasted until the water went cold. Only then could she start the intelligence-sapping task of makeup, clothes, and the like. Oh, and shoes. Somehow she had acquired like two dozen shoes. And they were all way cute.

The boys at work still didn’t seem to care. Or that she was spending all her time online, looking at fashion magazines. They kept complimenting her titties, which was very nice of them. She rolled in at 11, out at 3, for more shopping.

And now she was getting soooo HUNGRY. A bowl of cereal wasn’t doing it. Milly had to do several strips of bacon, pancakes, grapefruit, and wash it down with more bacon just for basic calorie replacement. So she was basically starting work at 1, fingering herself for a half-hour, and leaving.

But she still found time for that cup of coffee, at her favorite coffee place.

Except, when she walked inside this time, her husband was there, deep-dicking some floozie on the table.

Mr. Wren was having a hard time with his excitement. Elba was amazing. Most mind controllers had a tiny oasis of their own, where the laws of time and space were suspended, and every girl walked in on from the set of a porno movie.

But on this street alone, Damien counted two Secretary Schools, a cheerleading camp that was apparently year-round, six lingerie stores, with non-repeating apparel in all sorts of fabrics, one boot repair store, a leather boot store next to that, and three coffee shops. And this wasn’t main street. It was sixth street. They had stumbled upon a land where the streets were paved with tits, and the click of heels echoed over everything.

Chloe and Martin were parked just down the street. Martin had shaken off a strange reverie to find his girlfriend climbing aboard. Chloe had been seized with a sudden desire to get some sperm inside of her, just a few coats. She was sporting a new pair of double-d sweater cows and a fantastic pair of black leather boots.

“The girls, Damien! The girls! They’re like a rainbow!” Mr. Wren said, enchanted. They swirled all around, in a crayola pack of colors and sizes, redheads brushing against brunettes, supplemented by more exotic girls, some in downright fetishwear, some not, some visibly buzzing from inserts. And this wasn’t just a playpen for finished sluts—there were new arrivals, still clinging to outmoded concepts like bras and panties, stumbling around licking phallic ice cream cones, happy without quite knowing why. The air smelled of lilac and strawberries.

It was... amazing.. perfect.. everything he had personally dreamed of.

Except for the sobbing girl making her way down the street. She was a dark spot on a clean sidewalk, shouldering aside the happy and smiling girls as she stumbled around in the glare of the day. The girl was a natural blonde, and just a little top-heavy, unlike the beach-balls jutting on either side that she kept running into. Every woman she pushed past cooed and giggled, oblivious to the tears, just aware of another hand squeezing at overheated titflesh.

“Hang on, hang on,” Damien said, intercepting the girl. He spent a few moments in her head. A Mrs. Milly Spencer. Still more or less an ordinary girl, with just the expanded libido and sudden attention to clothing that was early-stage bimboization. And apparently seconds away from an upsetting experience in front of Mr. Vise himself, after catching her husband ramming some dumb slut with his dick. Too bad it was out of sequence—another week and Mrs. Milly would’ve set up the encounter herself, frigging herself stupid as her beloved gave it to some fellow employee.

“Hang on for a moment, dear,” he said, charming as he could, to the upset blonde. Damien turned to Wren, shook his arm to get the man’s attention. Outer areas of Wren wobbled.

“Look at this girl,” he whispered.

Wren saw yet another blonde with running mascara, still wearing underwear, and having trouble balancing on mere three-inch heels. Practically a nun in the Elba atmosphere. “Yes? So?”

“Look inside her head,” Damien instructed. “See that worm? That’s Thinker. Vise invented it.”

Wren furrowed his brow. Mind-scanning took him a long time, particularly with all the delectable distractions about. And, in fairness, Thinker was a complicated bit of mental architecture. It was masterpiece work, embracing new techniques while demonstrating the care and attention of a long-time artisan. Thinker was elegant. The more the girl thought, the harder the girl thought, the more she bimboized, slutified, and tarted up.

“I’ve done inverse work before,” Wren said, shrugging. “So what? The more she struggles, the hotter she gets, and so on. Parz’s Gambit. Big deal.”

Milly had calmed down, and examined both of them, bewildered and shaking. “Who are you? What... what’s going on? What’s with this place?” She looked around, seeing the streets for the first time. A subtle veil had lifted and pierced.

“First, it’s self-regulating,” Damien instructed his partner. An asian bimbo tottered by. He pinched her ass, just to see what would happen. The girl turned, melted him with a super-pleased smile, and walked off with double the wiggle. It was a perfect response. “They get dumber, they think less. They get dumb enough, they barely think at all. You see? You just set it and forget it, like a coffee pot. Second, if they struggle, they have to think about struggling. Which speeds everything up. Third, Vise put a trap in. Watch.”

He addressed the nervous blonde, recently adultered on, in his most calming and relaxed voice. “Dear, please calm down. You’re being bimboized by an evil mind controller. The trick is that thinking hard will bimboize you, get you hot, dumb you down, and puff you up. Do you understand?”

“I... I... oh..”

Damien had seen the Thinker trap before. He took a step back.

Mrs. Milly Spencer had a starburst of comprehension. A moment of absolute clarity, when everything made perfect sense. The heat. The two hour sex showers. The blowjobs, swishing sperm through her teeth like a mouthwash. The increasing trouble with math more complicated then plus and minus. All of it—all triggered every time she let her mind work on anything more complicated then the up-and-down of the female dominant position. She was bimboized, right underneath her nose —right at her tits, in fact.

And, in counterpoint to her intellectual recognition, her bust size swelled. A button popped, loosening a bright pink blouse enough to perfectly showcase her ballooning tits.

Mrs. Milly kept going, tunneling back in time. How long had this been going on? Since the first night in Elba, obviously, when they had walked through town and seen that brunette getting spanked on main street. And she had just watched, oblivious, her mind fogged and unaware. That night she had pushed Jon into the bed and roughhoused with his dick, until she had drooled on the sheets from too many orgasms. No wonder—she had already been getting dumbed down, slutted up....

“See, it’s a trap,” Damien explained, as Milly moaned and ran her hands over a tightening waist. Her hair was respinning itself, still blonde, but now like spun gold, cascading over her shoulders and framing the swell of her tits. Her skirt, already small, was turning into an invitation, one of the flippy denim numbers that existed to demonstrate that there was no underwear underneath. “They try and think of a way out, and that just causes the rest of it. It’s a perfect failsafe.”

Milly reached the same conclusion, even as her nose started to run, carrying with it loads of arithmetic and geometry. Her body was already hitting her with new waves of heat, alerting her to bimboized nerves and newly juiced parts of her body. Her titties alone were like bombs of happy heat, with pink nipples jutting into what was left of her gauzy pink shirt. Had it always been lyrca? It was so confusing.

“Oh gawdddd,” she said, trying to think of a way out. But no, she shouldn’t think—that just sped things up—made it worse... but she HAD to think of a way out of this, or she was doomed to a life on plush knees, sucking on Jon’s thick, veiny cock.

“Good lord,” Wren said, finally impressed. Millybear was turning from horny housewife to utter slut in moments, lines of lipstick popping onto cherry-red cocksucker lips, pink earrings complimenting pink fingernails and pink toenails. Her hair was even plaiting itself, into childish pigtails, with pink streaks on the tips.

“Something else, isn’t it?” Damien said. He remembered Mr. Vise’s first demonstration, casually teaching a young teenager mind controller how to not only slut-ify a girl, but to make it her own fault. His homework had been the girl next door.

Millybear slowed down, as the last brain cells gave up against the inevitable, and bathed instead in the pink fog that substituted for complicated, non-girlish thoughts. Her mind looked around in innocent surprise, and was instantly distracted when she realized that she had a pussy, and that men could stick cocks in it. JON could stick cocks in it. He was using it right now, on that girl! With the tits! She had tits!

She smiled vaguely at the two boys. Part of her considered sucking their cocks, but one smelled like old cabbage, and the other looked distracted. So she wandered off, instead, back in the direction of her man’s cock, like a bird migrating.

“She’s going to lead us right to where Vise is,” Damien announced. He tracked a line of sex juice trickling along her thighs, down six inch heels, and onto the ground, where it stained the sidewalk sticky. “And she’ll be easy to follow.”

The etiquette when mind controllers met could be complicated. They were both overly attuned to nuance, body language, the conscious and unconscious cues that piled up and could be manipulated. And, irritated, Mr. Vise had strongly considered seating his visitors at the second-best table, as clear a snub as possible, and essentially announcing that he considered them pieces of shit.

But the second-best table was occupied by the gently snoring body of Amanda, in the ripped and torn shreds of her uniform. As usual, a vigorous fucking had sped up the transformation process, and she was now lightly tanned and well-versed in Kanji. She would wake up bilingual and look around for her Hello Kitty backpack, the one with her backup pair of pink panties.

The third-best table had the Spencers in it. The brief mystery of Mrs. Spencer’s trap getting triggered had been solved by the arrival of Wren and Damien. Vise had reset her, smoothing out the brain drain and putting her back into dim, happy, horny housewife. This time she was going to run Secret Stripper, hiding from her husband her sudden passion for riding the pole late at night. That would dovetail nicely into Husband’s Whore, as Mr. Spencer played pimp with his classroom of nubile young things.

“Mr. Wren, would you like to see the town?” Mr. Vise said. “We have a lovely gift shop, if you’d like a souvenir. They come in blonde and black-haired. Just down the street.”

Wren was gone with a few mumbled thank yous. There was a reasonable chance that he would be buried under ecstatic female flesh in the next few hours. The man did not know restraint. But a good man, at heart.

“Our car gave up on us,” Damien explained. “We had to hitchhike, then use Mrs. Spencer over there as a kind of breadcrumb trail. You know how it can be.”

There was silence.

“Thank you for meeting with us. With me,” Damien said.

Mr. Vise regarded his crossword. Just a few words left. Five letters, “Ali’s nemesis.”

“Of course, if you don’t want to talk, I...”

Mr. Vise regarded him. And saw, in the disappointed, downcast face, the same talented teenager who had messed up on his first big homework assignment. Mr. Vise had been called in at 3 in the morning, where a perky brunette was energetically fellating a doorknob, her tits pouring milk onto a sopping floor, her clit the size of a man’s thumb. It was the same teenager that, many years later, had pushed him into retirement.... but....

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Mr. Vise offered. “We do a very nice cup of coffee.”

Damien had been through tricky situations, complicated situations, before. Once, a dorm resident had fended off her own clouded feelings and aching cunt, and managed a call to the cops. Who, fortunately, had come with a girl officer, and done a very nice striptease with a suddenly cheap and skintight uniform. There were run-ins in the past with rival Controllers, uninterested in his Organization, who had tried to turn him into essentially a penis with a body attached.

Only now was he truly nervous. And the caffeine wasn’t helping. Although it was perfect coffee.

“I like what you’ve done with the town,” he offered. “I’ve thought about putting something like this together, some day.”

Mr. Vise shrugged. “It keeps me interested,” he said, in his dry voice. The man looked and talked like an accountant, even when the subject was clitoral hoods. “Not the sex, anymore. Or even the transformations, as much. Outside of a certain professional curiosity.”

“I also find myself getting involved... less and less,” Damien confessed. “I mean, there’s still the daily routine that comes with the powers. But probably no more then eight, nine women a day. And it’s perfunctory. You know? And I once broke the century mark. I hadn’t even set out to do it. It was just a Sunday, and there was a cheerleading camp around the corner....”

Mr. Vise nodded.

“The thing about an Elba is that, every day, you have hundreds of mouths to feed, organizations to keep afloat, girls to program, men to coerce, new blood to arrange for, problems to resolve...” Mr. Vise trailed off. “The regulations on nursing schools are murderous. The government sends an agent. I turn that agent into a slut. That slut files a shoddy report. The government sends an agent to check on the first agent. She gets knocked up within three hours of arrival. It’s tiring.”

He glanced at Damien. “Of course, I’m not attempting to corral hundreds of mind controllers into a single Organization. I imagine Elba is like running a friendly poker game, compared to herding your team of cats.”

Damien shrugged. Self-deprecation was something he had learned. “They’re very single-minded individuals, most of them. You know Wren. Most of them like the structure. It’s not like these are unpleasant jobs. Go to point A. Turn point B into a cock-sucking slut. You know a few of them once tried to bimboize the pilot of the plane they were on? Because they had never done it with a pilot.”

Mr. Vise chortled. They both tensed. There was a reason Damien had asked for a meeting.

“I know... that you didn’t approve of the Organization,” Damien said, tentatively. Eyes downcast.

“I did not. I do not,” Mr. Vise said.

“I didn’t want things to work out like they did,” Damien said.

Mr. Vise jammed his finger onto the table. Despite his best efforts, the frustration leaked out. Amanda murmured and blanched in her sleep. Mrs. Spencer nearly used her teeth. “No. Let us be very precise. You wanted a certain result. You were willing to accept collateral damage. You were not willing to accept anyone who didn’t share your vision of cheap, mass-produced sluts and boring, television-friendly bimbos. Artisanship was unacceptable. Spending weeks on a single girl was unacceptable. As a consequence, I was unacceptable.”

It was out.

Damien nodded. “I deserve that,” he admitted. “I had... a vision. You wanted quality. I saw that as a dead end. I wanted to make bimboization something for the masses. Not just the exclusive preserve of we little godlings. I met so many tiny pashas, with their own harems, in splendid self-absorption. Because of a trick of genetics.”

Mr. Vise cocked his head. “I know you’ve been up to something.”

“Yes?”

“I heard about your work with those Calving people. The chemical approach. How does it work?”

Damien shrugged. “Well enough. You can get a lot of variation, although mostly they just turn into cow/human hybrids, to be frank. Identical pregnant sluts.”

“I figured,” Mr. Vise sighed. “Does that really accomplish anything? So you have a town full of knocked-up whores. Wearing tight clothes and aching for a cock. Maybe they have tits that can shade an acre. Where is the individuality? Where is the variety? Look at Amanda, my masterwork. She’s on a twelve-part rotating cycle. You never get bored with her. Endless changes.”

Amanda, under their gaze, rolled onto her tits and started to drool.

“And yet, even now you’re getting bored, aren’t you?” Damien said, softly.

Mr. Vise looked at him sharply. He tapped the table with his pencil. The coffee cup had yet to be touched by either of them.

“Calving was a means to an end,” Damien said. He leaned over the table. “I made hundreds of millions of dollars off those farmers. I put that money into R&D. I put my entire fortune into R&D. And now I’ve gotten what I wanted. Here.”

Damien reached into his pocked, and pulled out a small, compact smartphone. He tapped an application, a square box with a watch in the center. “TITLE GOES HERE” read the intro splash sequence.

“We’re still working on the name. Something Master. Master Personal Control. You know. It’ll be more Web 2.0 when we’re ready with it.”

Mr. Vise regarded the device with suspicion.

“Here, Amanda’s full name is Amanda Whyte, isn’t it? Lets put her into the system,” Damien offered.

The device pulled up a floating, naked wireframe of Amanda’s body. There was a list of statistics, body weight, height, the all-important measurements marked in large script. And a cascading array of menu items along the right side of the tiny screen.

“I think I’m beginning to see where you’re going with this,” Mr. Vise said. He held out his hand. “May I?”

“Hit randomized,” Damien instructed. “See what you get.”

Mr. Vise pointed it at the prone, dripping Amanda. “Okay, my dear. Lets take you for a test drive.”

Amanda had experienced a confusing, if pleasurable, fifteen minutes. Her body had expanded in arbitrary and confusing proportions. First, a blast of breast expansion, pinning her to the table with ridiculous, cartoonish tits. Then her body had expanded southward, giving her a bubble butt, wasp waist, and ending with permanently altered arches that demanded the highest heels.

That had been the beginning.

Next her body started cascading with eddies of pleasure and heat, swirling from one area to the next, then moving just as soon as she could get a hand in it or on it. First her tits had become globes of fun, then the wonderful feelings had spread around her lips, and just as she was licking them, her entire skin started to spark with sexual heat.

After that she grew another pair of boobs. They leaked milk. That had been followed by horns, then a tail, then a fox tail, then the strange appendage had reshaped herself into a cock at the end of a demon-whip tail. She had just started teasing it at the entrance to her slit when the fun new toy disappeared.

At one point she began to float, and her navel reshaped itself into a very concerning air valve. Happily, that hadn’t lasted long. A moment later, thoughts and numbers began to cascade through her head, awakening her to the joys of multi-variate calculus.

And a bit later, she was grunting and rubbing herself with a hoof-life appendage.

Then things started to get strange.

“But you see the problem, of course,” Mr. Vise said. He had found the presets, and the delayed effect buttons. At the moment, Amanda was going to give a blowjob to the next person to say “screw.”

“I see more then one problem,” Damien admitted. “You first.”

“You intend to give this to the masses, correct? A powerful tool like this? They will simply turn it into a boob tool. We will see an explosion of mammaries. That’s hardly exciting. The masses can do the same now, with just a bit of saline.”

“90% will just see it as a horny-maker and a boob-expander,” Damien admitted. “But the other 10%...” he grinned. “That’s the people to get excited about. Sir, I’ve seen, in beta testing, combinations that neither of us ever dreamed of. We had a girl using the device. A girl! She turned herself into a walking time bomb, primed to turn into the lovedoll of the first guy she met who could make her laugh. We had a boy turn himself into a pheromone-emitting King, controlling his harem with squirts of scent. And the furries, dear lord! Have you heard of pokemon? You wouldn’t believe what... but I’m rambling.”

Mr. Vise held the device in his hand, and put it on the table, reverently. Both of their cups of coffee had gone cold.

“There is one other problem,” Damien admitted.

“Go on,” Mr. Vise said.

“The Organization.”

Their eyes met. “I see,” Mr. Vise said. “You’re putting yourself out of business.”

“The Device has limited power. It’ll really only work on three or four girls at a time, for each system. The range and duration are somewhat limited, too. But yes, our demigods will become nothing more then full-powered versions of a web application.”

“And they won’t like that,” Mr. Vise said.

“No,” Damien said. “They won’t. Some won’t care. Some... understand what I’m trying to accomplish. Some... can be persuaded. For the rest, I need the support of someone who can command respect.”

“You need me back.”

Damien nodded.

“To preside over the death of the handcrafted bimbos I pioneered. The end of my own industry, in fact. I brought it in, I destroy it. That’s what you are asking of me.”

“Yes,” Damien said. “But you see what I want to replace it with.”

“I do,” Mr. Vise said.

He finally took a drink of coffee. Even cold, it was superb. Perfect, even. Perfection wasn’t just one thing. There were many perfects.

He filled in “Jafar” on the crossword puzzle.

“Maybe we should get going, then,” Mr. Vise said.

Wren returned to the coffee shop some six or fourteen hours later. In an entirely different outfit, this one founded on a long, brown trenchcoat that was already sweat-stained and dirty. He could hardly walk straight, and didn’t really remember the last time he ate anything. A few days ago?

The coffee shop was half-empty. The good table, the one near the window, was unoccupied. A young japanese girl in a pink waitress outfit, in frilly lace, came by the table. She wore white nylons and badtz-maru earrings. “Nihongo! I mean, hello! My English is, it is okay. Would you like some water, sir?”

The girl’s nametag read “Amaya.”

“Are there...” Wren’s voice rasped. “Have you seen two men? Older men? They were sitting here?”

“Oh! They left a message for you, Mr. Sir,” Amaya said. She turned, poking through her belongings. Even dehydrated, Mr. Wren examined where the top of her stockings met the curve of her ass.

She spun back around, and handed Mr. Wren a message, written on the back of a newspaper.

It read “Wren. Take care of Elba during my absence. Will return in a month. Vise.”

And Damien had signed it too.

Mr. Wren swallowed hard.

“Can I get you some coffee, sir?” Amaya persisted.

“Just water. Only water,” Mr. Wren said. Amaya beamed at him. She twirled. She wasn’t wearing any underwear underneath that skirt.

Mr. Wren sat up straighter in his chair.