The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Mark knew of Occam’s razor, the principle stating that among competing hypotheses, the simplest one, no matter how unexpected, is most often correct. In that way he could say that sex with Karen Corso was like a dream come true, because that’s exactly what it had to be. The sense of being visited by an impossibility, of living inside a bubble where miracles could take place, never left him; simultaneously, the part of his mind that felt it needed to understand the how or the why of it went on holiday, leaving him with senses that appreciated the sensory overload of it, delighted beyond measure to live in what the perverted Taoist in him might call the Nookie Now.

It couldn’t be happening; it was happening—both were equally true and all of it was essentially faithful to what he remembered of the morning’s dream. The sex wasn’t as predictable as, “She will do this next”, or, “It’s time for her to open the bottle of oil now”, like having dreamed the event beforehand resulted in their bodies mechanically replaying actions already lived in his imagination. At the same time, there were components that had to be present or it wasn’t a faithful coming to life of the Sandman’s gift.

Karen came close to swooning when he first mentioned the bottle of baby oil, for instance. When he said those words and included the otherwise useless information that it had to be a sixteen-ounce bottle, he was certain he could see something in her eyes that was akin to a woman falling in love. He understood her, or understood something vital to the thing, the state, that had gotten hold of her, and for about two breaths her eyes locked on his, beaming a kind of ka-ching! pleasure he’d never witnessed before. Some sort of mega-thrill to her system had her eyelids fluttering, followed by the seeing part of her eyeballs literally rolling back to expose pure white for at least five seconds. From her mouth, from between her lovely parted lips, came a wet kind of “guggahgaa” sound, like maybe she were trying to say “good God” or something like that, and what managed to escape was more like a brain only able to slur sounds, or trying to speak the universal, though hitherto unvoiced, language of nearly sentient sex organs.

There was no question of his place or her place—his place was closest, and her shirt had become completely unbuttoned by the time they reached the vestibule door. She unclasped her bra like it had become a hated thing, discarding it on the stairway to 2B, the fallen garment looking like a mammoth beached sea creature in the dim hallway light. He stopped to go back a few steps and retrieve it, but she pulled at his arm and yanked him up and right against her at the top, into her top, meaning right into the yielding surface of those missiles for boobs.

He moaned loudly at the first embrace, at the first heft, lifting them simultaneously, feeling their weight and how they had no spine, how by design they wanted to be pulled or molded or even halfway bent, funbags all the way. And the pleasure, the fun, it was all being shared, the woman wanting him to mash and lick and pinch and anything else, ooo-ing and gah-ing and hissing loudly, the very air around them turning moist and fragrant, pungently saturated with female humidity.

He must have freed one hand long enough to take out his keys, which she yanked from his hand so he wouldn’t have to pause from his molestation of her milk-mountains. They mutually shoved one another through the opened door, revolving like trained dancers. The bag with the bottle of oil had been in her hands, and he heard it drop to the floor. He was barely able to reach to the door and shove it closed as she unzipped his pants and tugged them down his legs.

She greeted his cock, so hard that it almost felt angry, with another of those distorted “good God” sounds, falling to her knees so her face was brought right in front of it. She pulled his pants and boxers away before closing both hands around it, hot fingers meeting even hotter Mark-meat. She had a wide mouth, an eager mouth that wrapped around his cock-head, her tongue flicking on the underside. The hands fell away as her mouth slid forward, slid all the way until her nose had nowhere else to go. All of him was in there, every single inch, and when she started to draw her head back he felt the beginnings of detonation, of a cumming flood.

Her mouth popped free, smack, and her hands were back but pumping this time. There was no mistaking her intentions, that she might only be teasing him harder—no, she was determined to bring him off, fast.

“Karen I... Oh fuck, I...”

“We met in a painting class so paint me,” she said, low and insistent. “Paint me, paint my face. Paint it, paint it...”

Holy crap, he’d had women try some hot sex-talk before, but Karen might as well have flaming arrows shooting from her mouth. She kept repeating, “Paint it”, her lovely features right in the firing line, head slightly tilted with her eyes fluttering. Her hands were moving like assassins now, giving him no choice, trying to wrench the cum from him.

The tide of the flood flooded and his ass clenched and he gasped, and then he was painting her as she’d wished, the energetic activity of her hands making him spew ropes of white this way and that, no zone untouched, patterns randomly criss-crossing from forehead to chin. And the expression on her face, the hunger for it, not at all dissipated with his hot release, perhaps even intensified...

Eyes closed, her tongue came out, moving in a greedy clockwise circle, slurping up all it could reach. He felt electrified and stunned, overwhelmed again that any of this could actually be happening. Karen Corso had his cum coursing down her forehead, higher strands gumming hair the color of roasted coffee beans, a glob crossing the bridge of her nose, another dangling from the bottom of her chin.

“To help you... last longer,” she whispered. Kneeling in front of him, her arms went under her boobs, lifting them the way a construction crane lifts very heavy objects, making an offering of them, telling him they were far from done.

Because they couldn’t be done, could they? Occam’s razor said it wouldn’t or couldn’t be over until the baby oil, not until her shining boobs were hanging down above him, and his cock, hard again, rose like a tower between them.

Had there been cum on her face in the dream? Not that he remembered, and did it matter? Later; he’d ponder the details later. Boobs, these very real boobs, were being offered to him right now, and the bottle of baby oil was right there on the floor beside her, and she looked like a fucking sex goddess who was just now being initiated into her sex-goddesshood, and fuck if he wasn’t hard again already, more than eager to get on with the tit-fuck dream act to come.

It was after midnight when Karen left his apartment, looking like a topheavy version of a brunette Barbie-doll that had been left out in the rain, and perhaps dragged from a string tied to the back of a bicycle. Her dark hair had gone big and wild and oddly clumped, especially where it had become mixed with his stuff. A deep red hickey blazed on her neck and a purple bruise colored her left forearm, the result of thrashing her limbs too close to his entertainment stand. But also not like a Barbie, because this body had nipples, really great nipples that punctuated the white of her shirt, her wide round areolas not even close to being obscured in the absence of a bra. The discarded bra was nowhere to be seen as he accompanied her down the stairs to the building door, a clothing casualty of the night.

“Okay,” he thought she whispered outside the door, facing him. She looked dazed as well as disheveled, and her voice was noticeably strained from so much use.

“Okay, then,” he answered back, wondering if they were actually communicating.

“No, I meant...” she semi-croaked, paused. “K. My bra. The size. If you see it you’ll know it’s mine.”

K, holy krap! And like if he stumbled upon it he would have thought it could belong to somebody else.

“Mark, I don’t know... I’ve never had a night like this. Not even close.”

“Me neither.” A car drove by and he wondered what the driver might think—this girl, those tits, him.

“I can’t have only one night like this. That would be... My God.”

“You know where I live.”

She looked up and took in the building like she might not have noticed the architecture or even the location on the way in. “I put your number in my phone already,” she said with a crooked, weary smile. “Let me call you if... I need to think, I mean... Let me decide, okay? Not if. When, let me decide when.”

“You’re in charge,” he said, but didn’t know about that. He might be the one in charge, or neither of them.

“I can’t believe... Nothing like that has ever happened before. Any of it.” She turned to leave, turned back. “What’s your last name?”

“Mitchell. Mark Mitchell. Nice to meet you.”

“What I became in there, so... In the morning I don’t even know if I’ll believe it.”

He did believe it, and felt a different kind of burning desire than the one she was talking about—the desire to know what it took to make something like this happen again and again.

“I feel like... I might even be...” She shook her head, crazy matted hair barely moving. “I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know if I’m the same person.”

They kissed good-bye, not a deep passionate tongue-twister but a semi-exhausted lip peck. He watched her departure down the lighted sidewalk for a good minute, that astounding shape nearly as spectacular from the rear as from the side or front.

What did you do after something like that, after a woman like that? Upstairs, back in the smell of her, in the sweaty fluid baby oil sex fog they had created together, he sat at his tiny kitchen-area table and thought the thoughts he’d put on hold for hours. Last night’s dream, his burning cock, the pills, the contraband beer—there was no telling what parts had been essential and which ones meaningless, but it was that, it had to be all about that. He’d come out of a vivid dream of it, of her, and boom! That very day, the next time they’d seen each other. Coincidences existed but not like this, not with life semi-imitating a sex dream with a partner he’d never otherwise hook up with in a million years.

The dream hadn’t been complete, hadn’t even had a beginning that he could remember, no part about how they came together, nothing at all before ending up on his floor with her gigantic tits hanging down ready for the oil, ready for his cock. Could it have translated into real life in any number of ways, with any number of variations so long as they ended up like that? And the way she’d come, gushing from the tit-fucking itself, like every touch of his dick against her boobs, every slide with her hands compressing her cleavage into a hot bun for his dog, had hit some tuning fork that chimed inside her clitoris, like tit-fucking became fuck-fucking.

He’d never brought a girl to orgasm without a whole lot of clitoral stimulation. People varied, women varied, but what happened here tonight, Karen Fucking Corso and her amazing boobular torso begging and gushing and screaming and the whole series of orgasms going on for as long as it took to tit-fuck him into cumming...

The word that came to mind to sum up the sex with her tits was superfluous, because they were so big, the cleavage-canyon between them so deep and long that he could be hung like a horse and she’d still have more than enough soft oiled acreage to do him proud. And the way they gave, the way they could mold their shape, flattening or fattening or elongating, whatever worked best for the occasion... They were super-fluous, almost infinitely pliable, nature’s prototype for shape-shifting. And then when she came, and came, the wetness of her pussy, super-fluid, trails down her thighs and damp on the floor, the woman leaking lust without him even once touching her pussy.

He hadn’t touched her pussy—what kind of sex was that? The sex of unfinished business, sex defined by a dream. But it had been no dream when she had surrounded his aching meat with all that creamy boobage, the friction up top acting like an echoing tongue between her legs, his second orgasm triggering an babequake that had the whole apartment smelling like girl-sex sprayed from a can.

He could just shut his eyes and drift in the memory of it, in the glow of it, enjoying how his cock ached from so much use. But there were questions begging to be asked, all the angles that he’d put on hold while the action was hot.

He’d been trained in sophomore year design class to brainstorm a certain way, letting thoughts come out in no particular order. He found his sketchbook and a pencil, and started to scribble words.

Dream come true in general, or specifically a sex dream? What if I’d dreamed of a pack of wolves—would wolves appear? Burning itchy cock—tie-in? Need beer? WTF? Need pill every day? Limited trial, two weeks, max. Or two days if they kick me out. Daydreaming different than dreaming? Daydreaming: In control, choose. Dreaming: Whatever, whomever comes. No control? Karen comes back for more? Sounded unsure. Suspicious? Just shell-shocked? What if she alleges I did something to her?

He paused, wondering where to go next. Oh, right.

If I can daydream sex that comes true, who’s next?

That one felt a little weird, similar to the old adage that smoking pot invariably leads to doing harder drugs. A miraculous and freaky thing had just happened, that was undeniable. It didn’t have to mean that he was now addicted to miraculous and freaky things, and would lie, beg or steal to get his hands on more miraculous and freaky... sex.

Still, it was easy to brainstorm something like a hit list. In no particular order he wrote Cynthia Gilwood, Russian model, the blonde barista at Café Magoo, Gentry Massey from last year’s art history class, the ultra-leggy red-haired lovely he sometimes passed when on his way home for lunch breaks.

Leggy loveliness brought up a mental image of the project manager from the morning, Susan A. Projectmanager. Hell, why not? In fact... He drew a line connecting Susan to “Need a pill every day?” Maybe not two weeks, max. Maybe, in a perfect dream world, a co-opted lover willing to give him a year’s supply of pills or even a lifetime’s supply.

He wrote a word—answers—right next to Susan’s name and circled it, feeling like a direction had just presented itself. He would daydream about Susan, picturing himself at the research lab in the morning, and see how she got hot by allowing him to continue whatever had made fucking Karen possible. Then he drew a line from Susan back to, “If I can daydream it, who’s next?” Susan A. Projectmanager was next, obviously.

Then it hit him: Cynthia Gilwood had already been placed on the runway, if such a thing existed. He’d never seen her in his dream, but had heard her, and she had said, plain as day, that she was next. Did it matter that he hadn’t actually seen her in the dream, only heard her voice? Did it matter that there had been no specific action, not even a hint of a script?

He had to concede that he didn’t know much of anything about what was going on. Impossible attraction and lust from the headlightiest girl on campus, that much he knew, but beyond that he was in the dark. Was it the pills—probably. Was it the pills changed by a Guinness mishap—unknown. Did he have to rub his cock against a patch every day to get fire ants in his pants, was it safe, was it repeatable, was it a thing as unlikely to ever happen again as winning the Powerball lottery twice...

Nobody who won big in the lottery ever played it again, did they? Asking lightning to strike twice, maybe even bunches of times, was like tempting the gods. But fuck it—he wanted to know, and the only way to know was to try things, different things, and see what worked, or whether anything worked.

It was late, and he had to get up early again. He showered away Karen-sex with his patch arm remaining dry, and set his alarm, and lay on his back in bed. He could smell Karen in the air like three of her were fondling their three Karen-pussies as room fresheners, making it easy to think about sex but difficult to think of anybody else.

He had an erection, but decided to keep that far away from the patch. Maybe that didn’t need to happen again, and why bring on more fire ants without knowing he had to have them?

He lightly stroked his cock with his right hand, not the left, and brought an image of Susan A. Projectmanager into his mind. A shorter skirt this time, her blonde hair pulled back the same way, tall with those inspiring runner’s legs. He pictured her face more fully—she had a nice little cleft in her chin, that great jaw, lips that were quite attractive but might be better if sex-swollen to greater fullness. Her eyes... Crap, he couldn’t remember what color. Did it matter? He bypassed the color and worked on what they conveyed instead, trying to create a certain look in those eyes, a mixture of wonderment and fire and determination.

“I need to put you through a more thorough examination,” he tried to hear in her voice. “This private room, please,” with her eyes gone smokey.

Closing the door and locking it, shedding the lab coat from her shoulders and letting it drop to the floor.

“You like my legs, don’t you?” he had her say, with her hands grasping the front of her skirt to pull it up all the way to her waist, giving him a show.

In pantyhose? He pictured them like that. Sheer, or colored? Or maybe stockings.

Shit, this was more difficult than he’d anticipated. It was like trying to construct a dream from an extensive menu, and probably from the wrong part of his brain. What came so easily in a dream, the details and believing in them, wouldn’t stay put.

And he was sleepy, worn out from the excitement of the long day, from the sex and everything else. Afraid he might fall asleep before he’d gotten to the important parts, he skipped ahead and tried to see, as real as possible, Susan on her back on thecouch... Wait, there was nothing in the examination room but a metal table. With her back on the floor, then, her legs spread wide, his cock slipping inside her. He gave her a face contorted with pleasure, with the wonder of it, and had her say: “Oh Mark, yes! I’ll tell you anything you want to know, give you anything you need, anything to do this again!”

In and out, making her say it again to remember it, trying to make it her voice. The smell of pussy in his nose just like Karen’s, oh Mark yes, anything, in and out.

Out.

He heard the heavy click, the door securely locked. Susan turned to face him and he saw a flash of panic in her eyes that turned to worry, worry turning to burning need, her need to rapid action. The skirt was first, a zipper at the side, loosened from her hips before falling to her feet. Then the heels, kicked off clumsily, frantically. Great legs, great toned thighs, now bending forward at the waist to shimmy her panties down, kicking them free at the bottom. She straightened and looked at him, questioning, hopeful. He didn’t move a muscle and she gulped air, realizing she still had the lab coat and blouse on. Off, the garments thrown aside, just standing there with nothing left but a pale blue bra and the little gold cross hanging from her neck on a chain.

He let a few seconds drag on, watching her mouth muscles quiver, jaw tense, throat gulping. He could smell her, smell her like she’d decided to paint the walls with her juices. The hairs above her pussy were neatly trimmed, the same dark blonde as the hair on her head. Wetness—he could see the wetness now, see it glistening on the upper insides of those delectable thighs.

He didn’t immediately free his monstrously hard cock—fuck, how hard could he get? He cupped a hand to it, then traced the outline of his bulge with an index finger, teasing her, hoping for a reaction.

“Oh-ah!” she gushed in a rapid little burst.

“You’ll do anything with it that I tell you to, won’t you?”

Widened eyes and the rapid shaking up and down of her head.

“And you’ll help me to keep it this way, with this effect on you and others. You’ll help me understand, and you won’t tell a soul.”

“Yes! Yes!”

“Well, then,” he said, finally grabbing hold of his zipper.

Her eyes were riveted. A phone rang from somewhere but he ignored it, and wasn’t even sure she could hear it. It kept ringing, louder and more tangible somehow...

He opened his eyes, heart pounding, the boner under the covers just as hard as it had been when he’d thought it was all really happening.

His phone, not the alarm function but actually ringing. “Hello?” he said.

“Did you ever find it?”

A woman’s voice, sexy and familiar. Shit, it was Karen’s voice.

“My bra, Mark. Did you ever find it?”

“Um, no, I don’t think so. I haven’t... What time is it?” It was barely light outside.

“Early; I couldn’t sleep. I need to see you today, this afternoon or evening. Will you be there?”

“After five-thirty, or...”

“I’ll be there. We can look together.”

Click.

He put the phone down and just lay there, ramrod hard, so achingly hard. Holy fuck, Karen calling at five-thirty in the morning, and that dream of the examination room with Susan, with her just standing there obediently, trails of wetness on her thighs. She’d been in the palm of his hand, ready to do fucking anything he demanded. Christ, if her body was really like that, and if she were really like that...

His hard-on twitched and he groaned. Karen, a real phone call, not a dream, calling to do what, bone him with her tits again or ask him what-the-fuck he’d done to her, perhaps even bringing the police to question him. He feared the latter, but the hardness of his cock led him into picturing her standing alone at his door, chewing a lip with her tits jutting out like they wanted to take on the world. The hardness of her nipples was unmistakable, the woman super-charged for another go-round with her juggs sandwiching his cock. And not just that—a great big helping of her pussy this time, too, no leaving until he’d plumbed her pussy, making her come so hard she wanted to write songs about their sex.

His cock, oh man he was so hard. Crazy hard, just crazy. He touched it, felt the head pulsing, felt it yearn and strain and want with a determination that felt geometric. He hissed with the first real stroke, just a light one, just ...

“Fuck!” His left hand, he hadn’t thought and had used his left hand!

He sprang out of bed, his throat tight from the rush of adrenaline. Had the patch touched it again? Racing to the bathroom, he braced himself for the fire ants, for the horrible itching and burning. Which, ten seconds, thirty seconds, a minute... didn’t appear. No pain, no agony.

“No contact,” he said out loud, meaning his cock had never touched the patch, or the skin beneath the patch.

He’d lost his hard-on, though, no room for that with the surge of adrenaline fear. Just as well, as he heard his alarm go off in the other room.

A new day; he’d be a rat in the lab in forty-five minutes and would encounter Karen in some way or another during the late afternoon. Over coffee and cereal at the table, he jotted down anything he could remember about his new sexy dream, figuring that if all or most of it came true, he’d have Susan on a string, so maybe she’d be the lab rat. He wrote down the daydream he’d mustered before falling asleep, too; if that came to pass instead, same result. If neither came true, anything could happen, including being let go from the trial this morning with hardly any money.

What did he want? If the previous day’s lottery strike were repeatable and he could get his hands on ten-thousand pills, would that be a good thing or a bad thing? Nobody in their right mind would turn down a sudden windfall of money, but was it the same if you got a miraculous windfall of dream come-to-life possibilities, or sexual access to anyone who became real in your imagination?

“I hope I get to find out,” he said of novel and unearthly possibilities, right before performing the wholly mundane activity of brushing his teeth. Life went on, whether incredible things became a part of it or not.