The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

2:34 P.M.

Talia turned off at the road at the TA, rubbing her wired eyes, exhausted—definitely not looking forward to pumping that tenth or eleventh helping of nearly four-dollar gasoline into her mile-ragged Prius.

I’m doing this for Gram, she steeled herself. She yawned, still debating whether this trip was worth it, now four whole days into it. Travelling alone, it was certainly surprising how friendly and accomodating strangers could be.

Well on somewhat of a streak with her luck in regards to random American people, she’d been grateful to find accessible wi-fi pretty much everywhere, and even managed to get a free room upgrade at one of the hotels she’d booked.

This gas-n-go was starting to look like the unlikely faulty link. Maybe not. Hopefully not. I’m doing this for Gram. Her grandmother was just about the only family she and her brother had left. But she was way, way, all the way across the fucking United States.

Ben had been fortunate enough to have picked a school less than an hour away from Gram. Their parents passed away in a freak car accident just months before she started her sophomore year of college, Ben’s freshman. I’m doing this for Gram.

The late-day sun made the craggy rocks and dusty underbrush sizzle. If sepia was more of a feel than a hue, this would be it. Rolling down her window, Talia became instantly parched. The air was so dry that all the water left in the quarter-full bottle evaporated.

Ghost water? “How is that even poss—” she muttered to herself, instantly rebuking the burst of negativity. Nope! Nuh-uh. No way.

She made a promise to herself, that she could remain strong through this road trip, from beginning to end. She intended to keep this promise. She’d just run in, grab a drink, pump some gas, and forget about how weird and lonely this rest stop made her feel.

For a nationwide chain of truck stops, this particular one was almost suspiciously empty. As in, one beat to hell pile of rust with some small amount of truck underneath, empty. Maybe some splotchy puddles of oil here and there, too.

Two virtually indistinguishable chicks, beyond any meager description of “well-developed,” sweaty and slow and lazy-sultry—graced with cartoonish, gravity-demeaning breasts, and fluffy little poochy tummies that wiggled along with those massive cans—were ambling in Talia’s confused direction.

They had skip-strutted toward the street as fast as they could in four-inch pumps. The silly, stupid-looking shoes, undeniably impractical for travelling, wrapped all the way up and around their thick calves in chunky, cow-print laces.

Or maybe it wasn’t cow-print, it could have been just some random design... It was probably the fact that the slightly rounder redhead had received a call or text that skewed “cow.” The custom ringtone reverberated throughout the dry hills, as clear as day.

A moo. No—many moos. A long, low sound file of agitated cattle, lowing their day away. “Hello-ie-lo from the number one ho!” tittered the one with the denim short-short-shorts with a touch darker blue.

Then she herself mooed (unless her twin’s phone had gone off too, which didn’t seem to be the case), letting the bestial, primal grunt shimmy itself into a more superficially human—but still rabid and hungry, depraved—groan. Without pausing to breathe, she started to jabber to a probably female person on the other end of the line.

Something about how “cocksuckin’s jus’ (her) favey-wavey! No wait—titty-jobbin’—no wait—(she) loves (her) some doggy-dairy too, though—oh, yew know, swee’ honey chile, like when yer boobie-woobies gush titty-creamy so dang mucH, and so’s, like, you or your, like, um, Studly McWudly can, like, um...

“Nah whass ’at motherfuckin’ dang ol’ word? ... yew-tea... like, or...?—fuck’n, y’know what? F it, nahmean? Like, whatever—” She held her hand to her cleavage, flush with mortification. She motioned the sign of the cross with her hands, but they distracted themselves in ten scoops of tit.

“I know it, an’ I’m sorry, kay? Anyways, it fuckin’, unh, well... you can, like, use yer mama-milk, y’know? Like not jus’ for feedin’ babies and givin’ a nice snacky-wack to new sluts an’ shit—like, fer some all-natural American-style lubey-wube, too—“

Talia rubbed her eyes. Did I just see what I thought I saw? Did this chick just pinch each nipple to make them hard, like she was innocently primping her hair? Not, not not—in any way—going crazy. Man, are those nipples insanely big!

She could only look on at them as the cow that owned them babbled on, a flood of ditz diction. “Haha, girl, I know—yup, so fuckin’ smooth, an’ I swear, with every pound of my juggies, listen up now... Baby—ahem—you gon’ fuggin’ cum and cum and cum—mmmmnh! like a bajillion million fuckin’ times, you gon’ cum!“

“—an’ yeah, so—no, not yet, but Kelly says it’s real good in pancakes, and kinda, like, taste like marshmallowy or some—” Talia tried to block out the bottom-heavy, top-heavy bombshell’s chittering inanity. It didn’t work at all.

Staring at the cartoon girl’s over-full, fatty (yet somehow gravity defying) udders only made her words feel louder—if still far away—and more stupefying. She was swerving in all directions on the road now, yet didn’t consider she was even in a car or driving.

Those big-ass boobs, those ditzy, blissed-out declarations. “I know, girl. I totally shouldn’t try to say them big ol’ wordy-type thangs no mo’. I should jus’ moo. Dass right... Defini—hehe, okayyyy, here goes—mmmmnnnnnoooooooooooh!” Then more giggling.

All of this was making even Talia giggle. She tried to moo. It came out too loud, disturbingly flawless for a first try. Both the girls mooed back, though! Some driving, mystical force was goading her into ignoring a freshly uncovered, natural ability to decipher the cattle call.

You are not ready, their moo was saying. The translation evaporated just as soon as it came.

5:01 P.M.

“No, no, that’s fine. You don’t have to do that. I’m not hungry, really! But thank you... I seriously just pulled off at this exit because I thought it said I could find some gas. But... where’s the station? I don’t see it. I mean—could...” It was difficult for Talia to see all that much of anything, in any direction.

And to not freak the fuck out. She wasn’t the whimpering type—but then again, here she was, whimpering and whining. No one was addressing or answering her. It was as if she was half-there, like a ghost. Virtual reality in a tiny little town.

There was but one time in the past ten minutes that someone expressed enough decency to communicate with her, and that was only to offer that bullshit honeydew white fudge popsicle thing. People flooded her entire field of vision, but they were completely unavailable.

Sexy people. They were very sexy. Laughably sexy, really, to a level that would have been unfathomable before the experience. The kind of sexy that, when there’s too much of it, causes a nasty pile-up of bad decisions. The kind of sexy that makes you ashamed of being alive, because you’ll never ever be that sexy.

It was remarkable to behold, that out here in the middle of bunk-ass desert nowhere, there could be hundreds of seriously hot human beings, all in one isolated spot. It was a sensory overload. It made it quite hard to access her brain on a steady basis.

Hot, hot, hot. All huddled together, just hanging out and being all sweaty and super-hot. She initially guessed it was some kind of festival or something. But from what she could glean from eavesdropping, however, this was merely an average town, and these were just its townsfolk.

Well, they were far from ordinary. Talia couldn’t locate one single—evensort of—unattractive person. Everyone looked fucking perfect—delicious, exemplary instances of all that our species is capable of. And it was making her angry that this very process was, most definitely, getting her a bit turned on.

Knowing that she just had to have been the ugliest woman there, without a doubt, put things into perspective. It made their silent treatment seem like some nervy game. As if, by ignoring her, they’d raise her frustration to a fever pitch.

Were they getting on her nerves, or was she just getting on her own?

The outside chance that any of this, indeed, was what was going on, turned her on even more. Even though it also seemed... kinda evil, if she was being real with herself.

The guys were all perfectly built, and built big, and oh so sturdy: craggy, strong jawlines all, each and every guy lucky to be preceded by the sort of chiseled chests, that only exist in a sculptor’s wet dream.

The traveller had a front row seat to what was proving to be a most erotic nightmare. She scanned the crowd. The girls all wore their dopey, well-fucked expressions, all but ensuring their uselessness to her. (Except for providing her with a healthy dose of jealousy, maybe.)

That is, if they didn’t already have their faces full of cock or a cock-shaped lollipop—or, in a lot of cases, their girlfriend’s titty. The boys, even if some of them were being tended to by the ladies, still seemed trustworthy. Their “O” faces radiated reliability, their grunts an animal comfort that they possessed resolve, and that they were judicious.

In the very back of her mind, hidden under the spongy weight of a freshly swollen libido, something wasn’t sitting well with her. She was feeling almost spoiled by all this biological super-determinism. What about the... non-hot people? They still existed, right?

So damn tough to think, though, when a neverending stream of Hottie-Americans are telling you all that seems worthy of knowing, teaching others just by hanging out with them while you luxuriate in the comfort of your very own hot and fuckable bodies.

Teaching the ancient ways of the hot people. That hot people are hot, and being hot is really, really hot. That to be hot is to be healthy. And only when you’re at your hottest can you also be at your healthiest.

Upon some deep thinking, which essentially amounted to her ruminating on how wet her undies were getting, it was hard for Talia to argue. All she had to do was look around. Nature in action. Wet, sweaty and perfect sex-people, in dire need of releaing a whole mess of pent-up fluids.

Soft, abundantly curvaceous women develop their big hips and fluffy tummies to have something nice and thick for their ripped, enormously hung masters to grab onto while they plow deep and stare at and/or grab onto beautiful, bountiful udders. The slutty little fleshpots’ big boys, with their brute, professional althete stamina need this, for the species to survive and keep breeding out hot fucking hotties.

But... there were normal people out there, somewhere, right? Guys that were maybe a little bit out of shape, girls that were oddly shaped, even thin?

Why, then, was she struggling to recollect what any breasts smaller than a DDD even looked like? Or a cock that didn’t immediately scream “half man, half horse?” Or a man shorter than 6′2″? Or a girly taller than 5′5″?

These thoughts preocuppied her so deviousy, she forgot to worry herself a great deal that the people she was so curious about, and so reluctant to ultimately give herself over to (like she desperately craved at that moment)—the sexy people, all of them were—if not flirting, engaged in foreplay. And if not fucking, then calling dibs on one another’s mates in the interim.

Whatever. Hotties gonna hot! It just seemed so natural—so innocent, so pure. Hot guys gravitate toward hot girls. Hot girls wrap their legs and tits around hot fucking cock.

Everyone is just so fuckin’... gah! How long was she standing here, arguing the merits of hotness with herself?

“Guys... Hello?” How did she get here? Where was she? The only thing that she knew for certain was that she was supposed to be going... somewhere. It shouldn’t have been this treacherous to figure it all out.

“I’m just standin’ here. Who a girl gotta blow aroun’ here to git some big body to fuck her?”