The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Adam wasn’t aware of any of his daughter’s transgressions, though he had grim reservations about Betsy’s strange behavior in general. He averted his eyes the next morning, over flapjacks, after they drifted right onto his daughter’s tubby new cleavage.

“Marisa, tell the girl she can’t just wear a bra to school!” he bellowed. The crazy level of anger wasn’t really warranted. Mother and daughter both snickered at him. His wife ignored him, and filed a new set of absurdly long french tips, glancing capriciously at the girl.

“Mom, tell dad I’ll change into my wifebeater if he wants, but not before I’m done chowin’ down. I ain’t about to flash my own father! Yuck!” They continued giggling at him, futzing with jewelry and phones all the while.

What he really despised, though, was the way Marisa and Betsy’s faces stayed flushed for hours after Benji popped by to tinker at something in the house. The idiot would stop over while he was either away at work or just when he didn’t know how to do something. Adam was a born geek, certainly not a handyman.

“You’re a real man,” Marisa had cooed over their neighbor’s shoulder as he fixed a leak in the kitchen faucet. Once Adam’s back was turned, she luridly stroked one of Benji’s ripped upper arms, and even pinched his ass. She had no idea her husband could see all of it, through the reflection in the refrigerator door.

It was getting so… weird.

There wasn’t really a better word for it, maybe “creepy” was better, but there just wasn’t enough tangible proof of any lecherous wrongdoings on his part. It was just that the dude’s “good country welcomin’” was ratcheting further and further up, to such a suffocatingly alpha degree.

For the past two nights at supper, Betsy had almost immediately sneered at something he said or asked, acting more and more like a cartoon of a teenage girl, and less like the introspective indie nerd she’d been when the Twisses moved to town.

“I’m gonna eat supper at the Bronko’s tonight, and there’s nuttin’ you can do to stop me.” There really wasn’t. Grounding her made Adam feel gratified in the moment, of course, but everyone knew it was only more of a flimsy grab at dad dominance, than anything of real consequence.

Adam’s face was locked in a perpetual grimace the last time she ate over there. His wife’s increasingly lax attitude toward parenting kept his aimless rage in check, however. He could hear his only daughter giggle uncontrollably from across the street. “Omigosh, I can not believe you just touched me there!” she giggled.

This felt like the longest, most drudging work week yet. He’d already spent three on this one project, overhauling the UX and parishoner wellness database of the local church’s website. Every day since Wednesday had been ten hour days, to boot.

“Honey?” he called out this evening, hoarse, and exhausted at bone level. He had to get to the bottom of this mysterious yet stupid box.

(NINE MINUTES LATER:)

Marisa Twiss hoisted her healthy new hips off of the hot pink, leopard print fuck machine for a moment’s pause. The feeling of loss was immediate and cavernous.

Before she could string the anguished words of her husband or recognize whose voice it was, her mind bursted open In a burning neon fuchsia flash. She could now plainly see what the past month or so had done to her, not to mention her family.

It played like a billion reels of film bending backward and forward at once, toggling across the span of timeless microseconds. Guilt would come later. For now, it was just a stockpile of useful information, unhindered by her softening self’s wet and numb new mandate.

The severe depression and spiraling thoughts from day one of living in Doctrine. The billowy earthtones giving way to short neon vinyl. Frowns turning into lazy lidded grins. Pounds and dress sizes being shed as fast as crows feet and sagging skin. Tits growing so big she could hide all her brains in them.

And now Marisa Twiss was taking turns with Wanna and Honey on the fuck machine, between alternately eating out either of the two, and getting her own clit lapped up. But Honey had evidently just gone and shuffled to the bathroom in a giggle fit.

Cumming four times in under an hour really wiped even the most basic cognitive skills from her brain, for the length of a minute or so each time, for whatever reason. But even though it was working sloooow, she figured out what Honey’s leaving implied.

Since Wanna had already climbed aboard the thing, stealing her sister’s turn, the only person in the room with a free tongue was Benji. But… that wouldn’t work! They’d all agreed that it wasn’t cheating if it was just fun with the girls while a man supervised the heavy duty sexy machinery.

So, why was he pumping his huge red cock with one hand and shucking off his belt with the other? Why was he walking toward her torso first, aiming that thing dangerously close to her sopping slit? Why was she spreading her legs to brainlessly accommodate the fucked-up moment?

Marisa’s heart jumped. She gulped. Right. That thing below the window that tickled her ears was a sound — how could she have forgotten what a sound was? — and she was almost positive that the sound meant Adam was about to drive off in a fit of rage.

Wanna noticed her looking outside. “Unh-uh, no-no, Maw-rissia.” She always called her “Marissia,” since Mrs. Twiss’s real first name name was, for whatever reason, impossible for her to pronounce. “You ain’t a-goin’ nowheres until a real man like my man can test all your girly stuff just right, for to see if ya can carry a baby.”

Marisa then somehow deflected Benji’s powerful but stumbling grip, that was legitimately hunky despite its douchey force, begging her to stay in bed and cum more. She tripped on her way down the stairs and out to the driveway, repeating “sorry, sir” over and over again, running as fast as she could which wasn’t very fast at all, and all without a stitch of clothing on.

She managed to slosh her way to Adam’s driver’s side window just in time for him to angrily roll it up. He almost lobbed off one of her greasy tits in the process.

“Adam, NOOOOOO!” she whined, overcome with a late-coming heavy dose of real life anxiety, the kind her mutating body and mind had been depriving her of for weeks.

Wailing, pleading like a teenager at her husband of over twenty years, as bright pink “practice jizz” dotted her forehead and cheeks. Gobs of the strawberry flavored goo trailed down her big new thighs, too.

“O.M.G. Adam, ya totes don’t un’erstand, baby! It ain’t a simple what’s it lookin’ like, I swear! Wanna an’ me was only gon’ let Big Benji have relations with my boobs, but tellin’ truth, I was even reconsiderin’ that so please, please come back!”

“I’M STILL YOUR…” What was the word? Fuck! She was babbling anyway, and he was now halfway down the street, peeling away from her existential breakdown. None of that was even true. It was almost wish fulfillment, or something close to it, as if he’d titty-bang her if it wasn’t his own idea first.

“WIFE. I LOVE YOU, PLEASE DON’T LEAVE! I’LL DO ANYTHING! I’LL STOP BEGGIN’ FOR SEX ALL THE TIME, I’LL EVEN STOP BUYIN’ BETSY ALL ’EM HOT GIRL CLOTHES, JUST — PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEEEEEEEASE!!”

She fell to her knees, nearly passing out, whimpering low, grunting like some girly animal, hovering in some wading place between emotional and sexual exhaustion. Dogs started barking. Someone down the street was hollering.

“SHUT.THE.FUCK.UP, SLUT! I’S TRYIN’ TA LEASH-TRAIN MY SISTER-IN-LAW, AN’ I CAIN’T GIT MUCH DONE ON ACCOUNT UH YOUR SKINNY HEATHEN MOUTH!” Some other dudes on the block started to whistle and applaud. Marisa choked back tears.

Darkness had descended upon church country, and despair and horniness were on one another’s teams in the fight for Mrs. Twiss’s mind. “YOU SHUT THE FUCK RIGHT UP, O’DONGAHUGE! YOU AIN’T EVEN GOT MORE ’AN TWO WIVES!” Big Benji Bronko to the rescue.

Praise St. Brittany and God Bless America. Marisa was so sad, and feeling so paradoxically turned on, that she gave no resistance to the guy as he picked her up by the ass and pushed her forward at the waist.

She was still crying as she humped her ass back onto his dong, leading him handily to her pussy by just a shimmy of her hips. He propped her up against the shiny new truck and the handyman began to do the thing he was most skilled at: fuck.

“You know,” he said, midstroke, “It’s his loss that he ain’t stick around to find out that you ain’t infertile no more, that he and Jesus got you preggers, and all this stuff in the driveway is our gifts to your growin’ family. What’s his deal, anyway? It’s not like you was sleepin’ around on him. Until now, haha.”

“I don’t want to talk about Madam Adam,” she said, shrieking in ecstasy, shooting a smoky look over her shoulder at her super hot neighbor. Dang, I can’t believe I’m bein’ fucked by somethin’ so beautiful! she silently marveled.

Calling him by the Bronkos’ pet name for him surely would signal a new level of her trust in Benji’s family. She was now more ready than ever to actually cheat on her husband with another man.

Casual infidelity suddenly seemed to be an even trade for humiliating abandonment, mostly because Adam was such a meanie to her just then, and she was really, really wet.

“I just want you to bone my marriage out of me. Can you do that, Mr. Benji? I want you to bone me so fuckin’ awesome. I want you, you tall drink of fuck, to FUCK me, until I can’t believe I ever even liked that shrimp-dick fucker.”

So he did. And Hanna and Wanna cheered her on a few feet away, jiggling up and down with pom poms and disposable cameras flashing, and meaty asscheeks clapping.

And for almost an hour, she couldn’t remember who she was, or who her kids were, when they both came home around the same time to find her half conscious, drooling and naked on the living room couch, watching the Kardashians.

Kevin laughed, pretended he didn’t see anything, and bolted to his bedroom. Betsy wasn’t afraid, though, and sidled up and slipped out of her bikini, fresh from another late afternoon of sauna detention.

She covered her mother up as best she could with the sweaty, microscopic swaths of nylon. “Mom, are you okay? Mom!” she poked, trying to wrest her out of a lids-open nothing.

She considered how absurd and sometimes horrifying everything was getting. She’d never dreamed of seeing her own mother in a state like this, drunk and over-fucked, with a brand new jade navel ring, and tits and tummy getting softer more quickly than most of the new girls at school. Tits and tummy caked in cum.

Marisa struggled to remember what “Mom” meant, and began grabbing at Betsy’s boobs, to draw her in for a french kiss. It was thankfully interrupted by a flash of the old, human, non-brat Betsy, looking concerned and confused, so instead, she began to bawl in her daughter’s embrace. “Sweetie, your father and I… Well, sometimes, in a moment of weakness. Fuck it. I… I fu—“

It was probably better to just shut up and cry harder. They both knew that. Betsy didn’t need to know any of it right away, that she’d fucked their neighbor twice, right in the driveway, and probably ruined the family in the process. Similarly, Marisa didn’t need to know that she’d essentially gone from virgin to 60, and 69, in less than a month

After a few minutes of much needed consolation for both of them, they popped open a twin pack of mystery flavor Cherub Cream and tried to not stroke their unendingly needy clits while slurping them down, all the while comparing the size, shape, and overall fuckability of the Kardashian’s butts to their own.

“Why do I feel like our asses is goin’ to get a lot bigger than Kim’s pretty soon?” Marisa giggled, like a girl half her daughter’s age.

“L.O.L., ma, I was like, literally, like, just gonna say that!” Betsy was beginning to feel comfortable and fun tinglies again. The soothing brain fog and body warming effect of the beauty cream was making the plain fact of sitting naked on the couch with her naked mom a plausible, practically normal thing.

She piped up. “In fact, I don’t even think you wanna know how many —“ How many pairs of underwear, pants, and skirts her ass had already decimated. That’s what she thought twice about saying.

“How many what, girl?” her mom begged, as if they were best buds and they sat next to each other everyday at lunch.

Hmmm… How to get out of this… “How many boys I’ve fuck — no, how many boys I suh — how many boys I let squeeze it! Yeah. I gotta stop gettin’ in trouble. Those detention videos are makin’, like, new memories in my head.”

Her mom gave her an amused look. “Honey, in all honestly, if you weren’t fuckin’ and suckin’ on the reg, I’d feel sorry and sad for you… and when you do suck, be sure to swallow every last —“

“MOMMMmm! Ugh, what the F is even going on with this fucked-up place? Why is it, um, accepta-bubble that we’re becomin’ kinda, like… trampy?”

Betsy realized she was openly drooling and masturbating to some church commercial or something, right in front of her mom, and fought past warm pink awesome to finish up in her bedroom and pretend none of this had happened.

She tried to send a terrified ghost text to the best friend who never received any, but her phone wouldn’t even turn on anymore. Even if the screen wouldn’t flicker on, it still hummed though, persistently.

Odd. Besty looked at the poor old thing. “Sure, that’ll work,” she whispered, pressing it onto herself, and cummed herself to an early bedtime.