The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Oh, Mom, come on,” Sammy pleaded. “This sucks. Maybe I won’t even get the Hornies again. Or maybe it’ll die down tomorrow morning and I’ll be like, the last girl to walk around with huge hooters, and when I’m ninety-three I’ll be the biggest freak in the nursing home.”

Sammy’s Mom took her pacifier out of her mouth so she could talk.

A dozen more hung around her neck, in all colors, as neon-shiny as plastic could be. Matching bracelets clinked gently on her wrists. “Honey,” she explained. “Karen has a mild case of Teets. It’s a very safe form of the flu, and then you’ll be over with it, okay? I’ve got some new clothes already packed for you, they’re very nylon, very stretchy.”

“Yeah, well, is there a bra in there? Or a wheelbarrow? Amanda Stelk got Teets and she looks like a cow with lips. Mom, I don’t even LIKE Karen!”

Sammy sulked to herself in the back seat. She had already had a minor bout of the Hornies, just a touch of the manmade virus, but it had made her so achingly sensitive to the touch of anything rough on her body. So the studious history buff strode around in thin nylon runner shorts and flimsy synthetic tops, and kept her dark hair in a ponytail so it would trail on her back. Of course, that was a nun’s habit next to her Mom’s day-glo attire, and the flashing body-paint effect of a Ravergrrl.

It was also difficult to sulk in a minivan with all speakers blaring euro technotrash.

“See you tomorrow morning!” Sammy’s mom said, and scooted off, her discotheque CR-V shaking to the drop.

Karen was stripped to the waist and answered the door only on the third doorbell ring.

Sammy had thought about running off, but, in the end, her Mom was right. Teets beat the heck out of getting something like Catgirl or Juicy or, god forbid, Sexdoll. A case of Master had swept through the cheerleaders, and now they all followed football players around with identical adoring bright blue eyes.

“Heyyy… I’m your inoculation buddy,” Sammy said, trailing off at the sight of a still-swelling pair of tits. Her own average boobs suddenly felt hot and heavy, as if frightened by their own potential growth.

“Oh, hi, come on in,” Karen said, holding the door open. Her boobs swung from side to side. They weren’t just large knockers, they were fabulous tits, sculpted, that rode appropriately high with the perfect set of cherry-red nipples on top.

“Growing like a weed, huh?” Sammy said, although it was probably more polite not to mention it.

“Yeah, and still getting bigger,” Karen said. She sighed, pouted, but then her fingers strayed to the very end of her tits, where her nipples poked against from dark brown aureole. She took a teat in each hand, and tugged at them. Her face went momentarily slack, and Karen made a deep, low noise somewhere in the back of her throat.

“They, uh… feel good?” Sammy said.

“You have no idea,” Karen said, in a husky and thick voice. “Anyway, come on in. Do you want me to sneeze on you to get it over with?”

There was, to Sammy’s surprise, another girl in the living room. A little older then both of them, and already through Hornies. The sweet scent of sugar gave her strain anyway, a lickable, bright sucrose that burned slightly of peppermint.

“This is my friend Margaret, we know each other from summer camp,” Karen explained. She gestured with one hand. The other was still kneading and fondling her still expanding chest.

Margaret was watching Mad Men and masturbating to Jon Hamm. She had put a towel underneath herself, to catch the sticky and juicy secretions of a Candy girl in full go. Her voice came out in a breathless squeak. “Oh! I.. I didn’t know anyone else was coming over.. and it’s… I can stop if you like!”

Her fingers hadn’t stopped moving between her legs. Sammy’s mouth watered, despite herself. Candy girls were indiscriminate, and apparently even their sweat tasted like jawbreakers. Even for the twisted world of Hornies logic, they were a piece of work. And gave cavities to their lovers.

“Uhhh… feel free to.. relieve pressure,” Sammy said, trying to act casually. Certainly it wasn’t unusual for girls to relieve some casual pressure, especially with just other girls around. But she was an only child and Mom kept it in the bedroom, the closed door hammering to a dubstep drop. It just wasn’t normal to her. “It’s cool. I’m just here to collect my whopping tits, then I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Oh, it’s fine, everything’s fine,” Karen said calmly, finding a chair. She was a strawberry blonde, and always had been. Teets didn’t affect hair color, although many of the strains made the girls over in dazzling hairdos of all hues. “We’ve got everything here. Movies, beer, candy… uh.. sweets. Not you, Margaret. Frozen pizzas. And like ten vibrators.”

The brunette waved her hand at a side table, where there were thick and veiny plastic cocks lined up. Sammy counted nine. “I only count…” Suddenly Karen’s too-calm affect during the initial rages of Hornies made a lot more sense. “Oh. Should we put labels on them or something? Like wine glasses?”

Sammy felt the heat just a half-hour later.

It was unmistakeable. All her friends who had gone through The Hornies had said that, of course. That it was what it was and could be nothing else. Sometimes they would stroke at themselves as they recalled it, eyes blank, a strawberry scent filling the air as they murmured about what real arousal felt like.

Sammy had been turned on before. After her near-miss with The Hornies she was turned on all the time, acutely aware of any sensation on her body, the way it made her temperature rise, her nipples grow hard and firm, her breath to get short and hot. And she wasn’t a virgin, and she had let Dustin Meyers do her doggy-style over his kitchen table. She considered herself a pro.

But it was, instantly, unmistakeable.

“Excuse me just a second,” she said. Already she could feel her brain starting to surrender to it, to the flecks of heat starting to infect her thoughts. Not to mention the heat of arousal that didn’t just start in her slit, or anything that simple. It was a all-consuming inferno of wet that was just as powerful in her toes as anywhere else.

Sammy wished there was a man around. All of a sudden she was doing a lot of thinking about penises. Before, even with Dustin’s dick long and hard inside her, there was still something faintly ridiculous about dongs. Or at least they were just a tool. But suddenly the inches of hot, aching manhood assumed a growing and central importance in her consciousness.

“I’ll be.. uh.. right back,” Sammy said. She picked out two of the vibrators. Karen and Margaret didn’t even notice her, as they masturbated to leading movie men, thighs bumping into each other.

Her hands shaking, Sammy managed to make it to the bathroom.

There was no point in being quiet, and it was impossible to boot. The girl lowered her thin bicycle shorts down to her ankles, then, maddened even by the soft touch of synthetics, kicked it off entirely. Squatting, undignified, she thrust an eight inch pink vibrator up her snatch until her fingers followed it in. Already she was juicing onto the bathroom rug, fluid making its way around the pink invader. She was moaning, gutturally, and what was in her conscious mind flickered back to that “So You Have The Hornies” video.

“You may find yourself acting a bit like an animal,” the sympathetic host had said. “It’s okay. We’re all animals.”

Her finger hit the power button on the vibrate, and Sammy began to drool on to the floor. Her screams burst through the house, where the two other blank girls ignored them, their fingers and hands busy with whatever they could find.

It was an intense, collaborative half-hour of burning out brain cells.

Later they ate, and ate. Margaret cooked, and everything she touched was kissed with molasses. And had the salty tang of pussy juice, too, since hands were getting everywhere, but no one really minded.

Sammy felt enormously better. Six or seven orgasms would do that. And, even as she felt a new fuzziness in her thoughts, a redirecting of purpose, at least it was a comfort to know that the worst was over. The initial burst of sex and horniness was a puddle on Karen’s bathroom floor, and she could get on with the serious business of growing huge honking tits.

“Karen, geez, you’re a machine,” she joked, watching the other girl eat. Karen had methodically and without ceasing ate everything put in front of her for a solid twenty-five minutes. First material available in the pantry, then pancakes as Margaret cooked them, and, finally, old crackers found tucked away on a shelf.

”Yeah,” Karen agreed. Her eyes were half-closed, her smile faint and constant. She did little except eat and touch herself.

A faint whisper of suspicion intruded on Sammy’s thoughts.

“Karen,” she said, “can you get me something from the refrigerator?”

“Sure,” Karen said. Calmly. Docilely.

She walked, tits preceding her, to the refrigerator. Already she looked… bigger… then when Sammy had arrived. Expanded. Well-curved.

And when she bent over, there was the smallest stub of a tail growing out of the top of a slightly doughy rear end.

“Cow,” Sammy mouthed, eyes wide open. Not teats at all.

No one wanted Cowgirl. Among other things, it was a pain to get milked. Cowgirls sat in the back of classrooms, calmly plump, and ate trail mix while they leaked. Even by the generous standards of post-Hornies girls they were intellectually absent, mostly able to moo at boys and wait to get bent over.

Margaret had seen it too. Their eyes met.

“Karen, can you pull up your shirt?” Margaret asked.

Karen shrugged, complied. Didn’t look like she had any thought of refusing.

“And heft up those tits?” Margaret prodded.

She did, with effort, mounds of titflesh spilling beyond her arms. And underneath the pillows, there were two more sets of nipples, just starting to grow in.

“Karen, I think you might have Cowgirl,” Margaret said. She put down the spatula.

“Oh, I know that,” Karen said, with utter lack of concern. She yawned. “It’s okay. Everything feels… you know…”

She completed the sentence at great personal effort. “…okay.”

Sammy tried to feel ill. But a girl in the first throes of serious Hornies had trouble feeling any way at all that wasn’t amazing.

It was a very bad idea for a girl with the first bout of the Hornies to go outside, supervised. And even worse after dark. And even worse in a skintight pair of shorts with pussy juice leaking out of the compressed sides, with swelling titties tenting up a scanty pink shirt.

The lesson was drilled into every high school senior. You will be oh-so-vulnerable, you will be aching with need, you will do just about anything to get some sweet and delicious dick inside of you. Imagine, the video said, all of puberty compressed into one hot, wet, shiny night, and then go for a walk.

That was the Hornies.

Sammy stared at the address Margaret had given her and tried to walk in a straight line. She kept veering whenever she saw a male walk by, a man, a boy with his cock somewhere underneath a pair of shorts or jeans or pants. The brunette couldn’t quite keep her mouth closed, and she knew her expression had to be dazed and surprised, staring with rapt need at all the men around.

Already she could feel a swelling sense of good feelings pushing within her, ready to make her over into a contented bovine, happy with a dick in her, equally happy munching on hamburgers and staring blankly at the countryside. The only good thing about Cowgirl was steady employment post-school out at the farm, producing in buckets, acting as a mooing conduit for turning food into fluid. Apparently many didn’t even bother with clothes.

Sammy forced her tongue back into her mouth.

She didn’t dare try to get to a phone. The numbers were far too long, all of a sudden, ten digits out of her grasp. Sammy could feel the scent of hay and grass overwhelming her old memories, replacing them with a serene and thoughtless contentment.

She realized she was starting to bend forward when she walked.

“Come on, girl,” Sammy told herself, fiercely. She had already battled the Hornies once, fought it off, when she was just on the brink of ordinary susceptibility. It had left her with just a healthy and cheerful sex drive and an aversion to wool clothes. There was a way to beat Cowgirl, and all she had to do was make it to -- she examined the address.

All she had to do was remember how to read letters and numbers.

By the time she made it to the right place, Sammy had swollen by at least two cup sizes. Her shirt had tented up, exposing a taut and trim stomach. She had kept up her running, not least because it had felt great on her enhanced skin to run in a breeze. That was already gone, lost behind two bulging breasts that ached pleasantly when she walked.

Sammy rang the doorbell.

There was a McDonalds on the way. It was shining and bright. She could’ve gone inside and gorged herself on calories, burst into milk in hours. It would’ve felt great.

Instead Sammy waited at the front door of a suburban tract house in a similar division to Karen’s.

A man answered the door. He was bony, his anatomy obvious, and wore a t-shirt with a college insignia Sammy no longer recognized.

“Uh… hi,” he said. Sammy eyed his crotch, uncaring about her mission, wondering about what she could expect. “Margaret sent me, can I come in?” she said. Sammy stuck out her chest, twirled a lock of hair with her finger, and only then thought to flirt with him. It was all so automatic, all of a sudden. “I need your dick. Help. I need to fuck you and your help as well.”

“Uh… yeah. I guess you should come in,” the man said. He held the door open, shut it behind her.

“My name is Arnold,” he told her.

“I really don’t care,” Sammy said.

The house was clean, too clean. The scent of lemon and bleach leached out of the walls, the floor, and the window blinds had been recently dusted. A part of Sammy took this all in, but far more fumbled with Arnold’s pants.

“My name is Sammy,” she told him, panting, drooling, her mouth heavy with spit. Men didn’t wear belts anymore, so it was just a few seconds to pull his cock out, already hard, plenty of warm inches.

“Okay, Sammy, how do you want it?” Arnold asked, casually, of the girl who showed up at his door and demanded a deep-dicking. It wasn’t that unusual, after all. Although typically it was a neighbor.

The idea of a choice overwhelmed her thinning thoughts. Sammy felt just about able to change channels on a remote. Anything more then that was too much. She whined, deep in her throat.

“The table, then,” Arnold ordered. He guided her towards it, a single cedar piece practically glistening with wood oil. Sammy plopped face forward on well-cushioned tits, and checked herself briefly for the telltale sign of multiple nipples. Nothing so far.

There was a brief, earth-shattering experience that Sammy eventually recognized as Arnold’s penis slipping inside of her. Only later could she reconstruct his pulling down her sopping wet shorts, the pathetically scanty nylon underwear she wore. A pungent, rich scent filled the room.

Arnold didn’t hesitate before slipping all the way inside of her. His cock stopped just shy of bottoming her out, and, when Sammy turned around to wonder why, she realized it was the growing heft of her own ass keeping him from pushing even harder.

But at least there wasn’t a tail. So far.

Then it was all wonderful friction. He was rough, wonderfully rough, switching angles and thrusting for his own, personal pleasure. And Sammy started to realize that she wasn’t just getting off on the wonderful tingles taking an axe to her multiplication tables. It was the knowledge that a man was happy, was thrusting inside of her, was dripping his sweat and spunk all over her body.

Sammy realized that she had only second dibs on her own body. Third, if there were two men around.

“I’m coming,” Arnold whispered into her ear, and the fact alone sent Sammy off, ripping her apart with an orgasm that didn’t seem like it could end. She shook around his dick, shook harder when he spurted inside of her, excited beyond measure by the fact that there was sperm inside of her.

Arnold pulled out, already emotionally and physically recovered. He shook his cock dry on her back, and she loved him for it.

“Is there something you need to talk to me about?” he said.

Arnold was a Collector. Previously his type -- nerdy, thin, pale -- would’ve concentrated on stamps or baseball cards or magic: the gathering. But now the true collecting action was women.

“Here, you’ll need this,” he told her, handing Sammy a full box of cheerios. “You must be starving. Lets go take a look at the collection.”

Sammy eyed the box, and hesitated. Wouldn’t eating more speed it up? But she was too ravenous to truly care, and soon had an entire mouth full of dry oats. The girl had already explained her situation to her new lover.

“Hands to yourself,” Arnold told her. “And… try not to drip on anything that looks organic and expensive. Thank you.”

It was obviously impossible not to drip at all. Sammy’s shorts didn’t want to go back on around a well-rounded posterior, but she had squeezed into them anyway. If only for an early-tail-warning system.

The collection was housed in thick mason jars, with printed labels pinned underneath, along a long shelf. The shelf had a tiny, hand-made railing to prevent accidental spills. There was plenty of room left for more.

“Thirty-eight collections,” Arnold announced, delighted. Far more excited now then before, when he was reaming her. “On the left is the animal wing, that’s what I started with. Tigress, Kitty, Puppygirl -- I know it’s common, I still collected it -- even, yes, Snake. And then you have Robot, Rave, and Rubber. My Rs.”

Sammy peered inside the jars. Each held almost nothing at all, just air, really, along with a slight smear or a pool of dried juice. The animal jars tended to hold a tuft of hair. She tried to concentrate on what Arnold was saying around an entire box of cheerios. Increasingly her mind felt like it was full of a pleasant molasses. And was her tongue always this thick?

“Geisha, yes, had to go to Japan for that one. Then there’s Maid, she’s my wife, she’s sleeping right now. Or was, we probably woke her up.”

The wedding ring gleamed on Arnold’s finger. Along with one other. If he had a two-girl harem, where were they?

“…and that’s it. I met Margaret when I collected her candy. That’s her honeycomb in there. And so you’re developing Cowgirl, huh?”

“I don’t want to,” Sammy said. She had to enunciate each word very slowly and carefully. Arnold matched her in a solemn nod.

“I get that. That’s a lot of milk to clean up after. And you eat a lot of grass and the tail is apparently a big pain. So. I don’t know for sure this will work but… word is that a more… extreme change will overpower a lesser one. I don’t know which of these will overpower Cowgirl but you’re welcome to take a sniff.”

He waved proudly at his long row of jars. Sammy blinked at them, her lashes longer, her eyes dull and glistening. The words on the labels were so long and the type so small, and she had to move her lips to sound out some of the more challenging words.

They were all of them big changes, big. Geisha, where you sat motionless for hours on end, waiting for the command of a male, your face colored clown white. There was all of the animalie, which meant going into heat, fur, the unwelcome addition of extra teats. She might as well stick with Cowgirl. And so many more, swirling in an overheated and draining brain that really just wanted to munch on cheerios and stare blankly at something. The cheerios were very oat-y.

“So hard to decide, isn’t it?” Arnold said, sympathetically. “Here, you don’t need to decide right away. Would you like some M&Ms? I have a whole bag of them handy.”

He handed her the bag, already opened, stuck it right underneath her nose. A spike of sugar and chocolate raced up through Sammy’s nose. She snorted, and had to stop herself from digging in with her mouth.

“Here, lets walk around,” Arnold said. He put a hand on her ass. It felt good there. Sammy dropped the bag of cheerios, watched the little that was left skitter across the hardwood floor. She had consumed almost an entire box in under five minutes.

“Becky can get that. Becky, you’re nearby, right?”

A girl with dark hair and no expression at all emerged from a dark corridor closer to the bedroom. She had her hair pinned back with what looked like long spikes, topped with alabaster, and wore the usual maid’s uniform. A similar girl did up Sammy’s house once a week. They worked for free. And as usual, Becky’s face broke into a sudden, blissful smile once she began gathering up individual cheerios.

“That’s your wife?” Sammy asked, around a blissful mouth of chocolate.

“One of two. Jennifer has Robot, she’s recharging in this closet,” Arnold said. He gently rapped at a closed door. “Yeah, we’re a happy family. You know, I told Margaret she could join up, if she wanted to. I work nearby, I’m home at five and come home at lunch for a quickie. And I’m on this new drug that, you know, it gives you a hell of a lot more stamina.”

They passed through hallways, Sammy dripping chocolate, and Becky happily cleaning up behind.

“I don’t…” Sammy was still trying to pick a new virus. What was Arnold going on about?”

“I’ve got a big old lawn out back. Nice shade. Private, big fence,” he waggled both eyebrows at her, then sighed. “Okay, I see you’re pretty far gone. I’m asking you to stay with me as a Cowgirl.”

A lawn. Bright, green, wonderful grass. No, just grass. Not delicious grass, not wonderful grass. Sammy shook her head to clear it. It was like shaking an empty paint can.

“I think.. I’ll just take my chances with one of the jars,” she said, thoughts moving at a snail’s pace. “Just whichever. At random.”

“C’mon,” Arnold said, commanding now. The studied casualness disappeared abruptly. He stopped her with nothing more then a significant glance. “Doesn’t it feel good? The food, the house, the cleaning service. You won’t need to think. You won’t even be able to. You can sit and watch soaps and pet yourself and my other girls. You’ll be the perfect addition. I want a Cowgirl.”

“I don’t… I don’t…”

How could she say no to a man?

A man that had invited her in… and… forcefed her… and.. walked her AWAY from the jars…

Sammy snorted, appalled. And the sheer animalism of the noise made her jerk away, pull back towards the jars.

“Oh, Sammy, come on,” Arnold said, placating. “It’s not like that. Look, Cowgirl isn’t so bad. You’ll like it!”

She reached the long row, with their indistinct and illegible labels, the English well beyond her. Sammy felt a sudden pressure on the base of her spine. And suddenly she realized, with perfect, clarity, three different things.

First, that the shelf wasn’t secured against the wall. Second, that the jars were glass. And third, that the floor was very hard wood.

“Hello?” Margaret said. The door was open, but nobody answered. “Anyone?”

It had taken her and Karen a long time to get over to the house. Not that Karen was resisting -- she was quite happy to go anywhere and do anything, anything at all. But the twosome had run into a pair of college boys with some time on their hands, and they had all piled into cars for a lengthy round of fun. Margaret had been worried that the boys would turn away from Karen, but it turned out that one of the two had a yen for thicker rumps and the farm-fresh scent of a cowgirl in heat.

The two had dropped the girls out front. One dripping wet from sweet milkspray, the other gummy and reeking of suckers.

“Sammy, did you get here? Hello? Arnold?”

The twosome stepped inside. Karen had snapped a collar around her neck before they left, a discarded blue nylon dog collar from a long-ago pet, and seemed very satisfied with it. She wore a long white dress translucent with milk. Margaret wore the usual loose dress of a girl who had to snap lollipop brittle off herself from time to time.

“Anyone?”

There was the comforting sound of an orgasmic moan from somewhere inside. The two girls oriented on it automatically, following the trill of a wet and panting girl deeper into the house.

They came upon the maid first. She was transfixed, staring into the living room, her legs and her mouth wide open. She fingered herself wildly, gaze locked inside.

Shattered glass surrounded the two of them. Labels still wafted around in the air.

Sammy was riding Arnold, on top of his prone form. He was stripped naked, feebly thrusting, his outstretched fingers prying into the wood floor. His eyes were wide with a frightened delight.

Sammy had grown a tail. It was whip-thin and long, with a barb at the very end. Her skin had turned a lipstick red, and heat seemed to shimmer around her. Her breasts were large and loud, and her hair had turned jet black, spilling around her ears.

Sammy keened with another wet cum, and two small spikes forced themselves out of her forehead.

“Please…” Arnold breathed, in Margaret’s direction. “Please help me.”

“Eyes front,” Sammy told him, playfully. She jiggled her ass up and down on his cock to get his attention. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No…” Arnold said, eventually. “I… don’t stop. Please stop. Don’t. Never stop. Yes.” He trailed off, and thrusted once more, before falling limp back to the floor.

“Tie goes to more fucking,” Sammy said. She resumed her bouncing up and down, and, playfully, began to run long and sharp fingernails up and down Arnold’s chest. She didn’t seem to care whether or not she drew blood.

“I’ve never seen that one before,” Karen said, placidly.