The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Oh my god Mom, stop it! This is so embarrassing!” Brittney’s tension verged on hysteria. “Let’s just go home. I just—I want to go home.”

Lori impatiently swatted away her daughter’s hand. “Please, Brit—No. Calm down. Get back in your seat.” It had taken a days to get this appointment.

Brittney would be off to college in just a few months, yet things like Gyno visits still made her colicky. She’s an adult but still so squeamish about womanhood. Lori of course had been through this once before, the first time Brittney went through puberty. All the new hormones, the angst, the tomboy dedication to lonely, weird, isolating pursuits only a teenager could enjoy—Lori was so glad it would almost be over. Even now, firmly in the chair, Brittney continued her petulant grousing.

“We don’t even need to be here. I’m FINE.” She said, arms crossed fiercely over her chest, scowling like a child.

“There’s nothing wrong with me—” Brittney moved to leave her seat again, but before she could escape, Lori reached over to caress her tits.

Orgasm rushed it’s way through Brittney so suddenly her eyes fluttered and her jaw locked stupidly to the side. It bolted through her so immediately, so casually igniting her and flaming her circuit to white-hot filament, she was cumming again before she could formulate the words. She wanted to pull away but her convulsing body trashed impotently in her seat, pressing her young breasts into the invading hands.

“FFFFffuhhhu. . .” It’s hard to speak and cum at the same time. Sentences would go all wormy and she felt like choking from how tightly constricted her throat clenched at each beautiful climax. Her mouth opened and just sort of hung there in a wide breathy oval of surprised plush lips, unable to do so much as whistle.

Inside Brittney fought kicking and screaming, all the while stuttering straight nonsense. Lori had grown confident in this technique. She had grown quite adept at silencing protest. Everyday last week it was: ‘Where’s dinner?” or “Stop coming home late with strange men”. Why’s dad fucking the neighbors? Dr. Shepard’s dangerous. There’s no such thing as ‘Second Puberty’. Boys can’t all be horny creeps with big stiff dicks stuffed in their pants. How come all I can think about is penises? I can’t stop fingering myself.’ Which wasn’t even a question!

She’s nice, smart, and normally quite obedient – but Brittney could drive any parent up a wall with her nosing about. It was like she had trust issues or something. The only reason Brittney had even agreed to come along was because Lori had suggested they go out for lunch after school—which may have quickly turned into an impromptu doctor visit. Lori was not ashamed to use her family for the referral program.

Brittney’s breathing slowly resolved back to normal and, for at least a moment, the light-show of orgasms subsided to just firecrackers. After the thunderstorm of ecstasy had gone, an afterglow of warm foamy white clouds rolled in to replace them. Her face burned bright and a lightheaded numbness tingled all over. She barely had the energy to s just it there and NOT finger herself.

The stray fibers of her top raked her breasts with spiked pleasure. Her normal, platonic cotton t-shirt savaged her small nubs with lances of delight. Any contact was like scratching a boiling mosquito bite, and the demanding itchiness always made her think weird unnatural things. Her boobs were so tender and irritated and yelped like a small dog for a whole crowd of handsome neighborhood boys to fondle and caress her warm tits . . . with her in the center, trapped in a gentle fleshy iron maiden of male prongs-

“S—ssss. . . Sss . . . Ssto—” Brittney raised her arms in defense, intending to pull Lori’s hands away but so far had only managed to grapple with her wrists.

“Small?” Lori considered, hefting them in turn.

For several years now, Brittney had finally accepted her to be a pair of fully developed tits. The movies and even a few of her friends confirmed that big gorgeous boobs do indeed exist, and that she didn’t have them—and they had mostly been inert! Just more tissue, not exceptionally sexual in nature outside of their ability to excite boys. And you know what? So what. So what if she wasn’t some brainless top-heavy cheerleader, squirting in the hall because two steely athletic footballers suckled her tits as she jerked them off. Doesn’t she know how ridiculous her struggle to suck the big dick just dangling in front of her face while sandwiched between two burly men looks?

“Brittney, you can’t let things like that concern you. These are some great tits.” Lori gave her nipples an extra experimental squeeze that burst apart her concentration like asteroids. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

The other day, in the bathroom, was the first time Brittney had ever cum from just playing with her nipples. That never happened before, I swear. Not by herself, or with anyone else had she managed to achieve three orgasms in a row from just her nipples. They were definitely bigger. She could practically feel them growing, pushing outwards on her chest. Steam bells whistled and foremen in hardhats caber-tossed two-ton iron beams up to more handsome workmen above, future site of Huge Tits Inc.

Brittney was wet, unbearably wet. Even now she was still cumming. Lori’s hand on her chest, even over her shirt, was like a child punching all the buttons on a elevator where all the floors just read: “Cum your brains out”. The lower half of her body sizzled with prickly aches like a mermaid of sensation flowing out from below the waist. Her lower half a long shimmering tongue of euphoria. It made her want to punch holes in the wall.

Everywhere reminded her of dicks. The over-long white plastic syringes knocking on all the nurses’ hips like holstered six-shooters. The wall-art of bulbous cartoon characters composed probably unintentionally to look like a cock and balls. The glossy lobby magazines of laboratory fresh male hotties and the anthropology of well-hung indigenous tribes. The huge, preposterously tented trousers of only two guys in the lobby. They were both pointed straight at her, she was certain. It was like everywhere she looked, there were long grabbable penises—ripe and tall in all directions.

This wasn’t normal. Something was seriously. . . definitely. . .

Wrong.

“I feel fine. I’m fine. We don’t need to be here, let’s just go home. I’m fine.” Brittney slurred with all the confidence and poise of someone that volunteers the phrase: ‘I’m not that drunk’. Just like a sober person would.

“We’re here. We’re doing this.” Being a good parent, Lori knew how to bulldoze her children. “Here, let me—”

Before Brittney could catch her breath Lori brought her hand down behind her pants. Lori almost rolled her eyes feeling what they were, functional granny panties. I mean really. There were so many ways to dress Brit up, all of them sure to get dumb-ol’ boys to fuck her. It’s time she learned to wear something sexy. Not that Brittney would even try to have a conversation about what kind of panties make boys blow their loads or get you re-invited for a threesome.

Lori found her clit and ground at it with her palm, her fingers slurping inward without resistance. Brittney forgot how to breath and instead just sort of gulped at the air like a fish. All her thoughts on the matter disappeared behind a wax curtain of humid pink smoke and Brittney spread invitingly, drooling like an upturned candle.

“Isn’t that nice?” Brittney’s vision flared, all the shapes blurring together in a feeling that was just too fucking great to process.

“She’s got a pussy.” Dad nodded smugly.

“Stop it.” They didn’t make National Geographic magazines big enough to hide behind. Dense small-font anthropological filler about the still naked aborigines of some remote savannah tented over his face.

Like an idiot, Jake forgot his phone in the car and the busy lobby had chewed up everything else. There were close to a dozen other people here and they had chewed up the stack of reading material carrion. Looking out at them, Jake found himself reflected by a ring of turning pages and brightly colored glamor rags. To his left, rail-thin Hollywood hotties extolled secret baking tips. To his right, a whole family of smiling confident Chris Pratts wrestled with Montana trout fishing. All of it too stupid and inane for description. Jake was missing the game for this.

“She’s got a pussy. Sheee’s got a pussy. She’s got a pussy too.” Dad giddily pointed out, strangely self-satisfied with his keen observation about the nurse behind the counter. Jake blew disapproval out his nose, then somewhat reluctantly turned to see.

She was unreal. So clean and chipper, and her skin so smooth and unscaley that she seemed genuinely out of place in a room full of wheezing disgusting humans with sneezy orifices and achy joints. The nurse sat, legs neatly folded, behind blueish see-through glass the color of toothpaste. Her legs pushing out of a scandalously tiny white rubbery skirt. You could see her whole leg right up to where it began to ever so subtly curve before the hem rather prudishly cut the adventure short at just the first inch of exposed ass. Sitting there in the chair, twirling a pen between her fingers expertly and waiting for the goddamn computer to work, she looked elegant and maybe a little bit slutty.

Every minute or so she would sigh and adjust her legs, flattening out her skirt and tugging down the hemline, and never failing to catch the attention of every man in the room. It was all so demure and stately, like play acting, like a drowsy preening southern belle fanning away the vapors pretending not to notice how her ankles are showing. Which would have normally driven the nearly dozen people waiting for appointments to savagery, but today passed over with oceanic calm. A tide of attention surged forwards and rushed back to the turn of her legs.

“Ugh, you’re being gross.” Jake whined, wishing to be anywhere else. Still, he watched as the shapely nurse inevitably grew uncomfortable with her posture and adjusted her legs again.

Dad was having none of it. He loved to embarrass his kids, but even for Dad . . . this last week had been especially vulgar.

“You see—You see that?” Dad not so non-nonchalantly whispered, shielding his voice with the back of his hand and indicating excitedly with his eyes the woman who had just got in line. A trail of translucent fluid ran down her inner thigh.

“No.” Jake blushed, looking away. He did see.

She was quite beautiful, at least in the recognized way. Tiny body with a big rubbery butt and huge impossibly generous tits stuffed into a body-tight teal dress that said: “Yes, I do go to the gym five times a week and it is explicitly to fit into this dress, thank-you-very-much”. Yet there was a fidget in her neck and she would hop from one foot to the next uncomfortably, shivering slightly and shaking herself as if to keep her mind away from the slow drizzle of silky clear fluid leaking its way down her inner calve. Finally she and swiped at it, almost idly, brushing aside the gentle flow.

“Where do you think that’s coming from, eh?” Dad again prodded with his elbow.

She sniffed at the offending digit and recoiled once or twice before deciding the pungent juice was to her liking and sucked her finger clean. Her big, outrageously stuffed pink lips reaching right down to the knuckled. It seemed she decided she did indeed like it very much. She was very thorough and giggled to herself contentedly when she pulled back to inspect her work.

“Ew. Stop it, Dad. You’re being gross.” The woman quickly went back for more, this time guiltily scanning the room to see if anyone was looking. We both politely looked away.

“What, I’m being gross? I’M the one that’s being gross in this situation! Oh, I’m being gross right now.” Dad wore his best persecuted face.

I could see his point. Fuck, I could smell it. You could smell it on all of them. The whole gaggle of mothers and daughters and random estranged women floating about the place, everyone of them a different species of pussy. Every time another overheated woman walked by, his cock would turn like a dial towards it. They passed with fuzzy nimbus trails of phenomenal horniness, that turned his dick like a painfully erect sunflower. Jake didn’t like the smell, but goddamn if it didn’t trigger something insatiable and primal. It meant fucking.

It smelled like the locker-room after the girls had their turn. The showers humid fog still reeking florid pussy. Desperate wanton pussy, begging to be fucked. It stunk like horny teens rubbing their cunts in a frenzy.

Which was crazy because as Jake had learned many times playing football, cheerleaders were among the most vapid, self-absorbed ice-queens and obedient parentially-controlled thralls of the most intimidating helicopter parents he had ever met. They’re stunted, loud and boring. Vicious cats destined for the rubber-room and while they traveled together for the games, one got the impression that the cheer-squad were likely to start clawing at each other at any moment. Especially when the team isn’t doing very well, which we NOT are this season!

That is . . . if I can still play. I’m just one doctor’s note away from being back on the field.

Across the room a pair of legs kicked out and squirmed as if trying to get away from their owner. After a muted scuffle and an older woman’s hushing, eventually the legs shook like a tuning fork and fell limp to the floor. The sigh of pure satisfaction that followed was young and vital, everyone else in here was so old.

“Okay, so I’m being gross right? What do you think that was?”

“Probably a spasm or something, I don’t know.” There are some profoundly crippled people in this world and Jake could picture a few of them.

“Oh, it was a ‘spasm’ alright. Jesus, the bitches today. It’s ridiculous. It’s like, when’s a guy not supposed to just peel back one of these cheap whores and bang her stupid?”

“Dad! That’s not—”

“I mean really get in there and just wreck up the place, like a bull in a china shop.” Dad made a fist and slammed it roughly through his fingers shaped in an oval on his other hand over and over.

“JESUS! Fuck—DAD! I don’t think women want to have their . . .” Jake blushed, hating to say vagina but hating everything else worse. “bodies-”

Dad chuckled out loud. Bodies!

“Women don’t want some guy treating them like a bull in a china shop!”

“Oh, you don’t do you? Boy, come on, look at them.” He waved at them like a farmer might at some fields that need plowin’.

Jake wanted to swat him with a newspaper. Wanted to cork him. Dad had always held unpopular social opinions but normally had the good graces not to expose these fatal character flaws except after several beers, in mixed company, with impeccably bad timing. It was unusual for him to be so flippantly sexual and open with his own son in public for no reason. Dad just fell back in his chair, shaking his head.

The head-aches flared back to life and it was all Jake could do to just hold onto his face until it passed. It felt like a cheese grater, like his mind had bumped up against a slanted wall and everything intersecting had been sheered away by an electric sting. Jake could remember chasing down an other player. He could remember the player running away not yet aware of him closing in, his orange jersey flapping slightly where it poked out of shorts. He was smaller than Jake and he remembered the surge of power that gave him. He could the speed in his heels and the sense of rushing monsterously forward. He could feel the spring of the grass under his cleats.

Then nothing. Surely something must have happened, but I have no idea what. People have told me, and their stories do seem to coalesce around certain facts, however I have had little choice but to passively accept these stories of gigantic invisible defenders. Sometimes when I think about that time, where the track my memory skips and there seems to be some space missing, my head just starts to pound. I don’t have a name for it. I don’t have any other similar gaps in memory. The story of Jake’s life was so far complete, except for about three hours somewhere between what must have been a game winning tackle and then later in the evening sitting in a hospital bed. And it was over this afternoon, all the adults of his life refused to leave him alone.

There’s nothing wrong with my brain. NOTHING.

I just can’t remember what happened, that’s all. I just got a little confused, there’s no reason everyone has to act so weird about it. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t be allowed to play football. There’s no reason why everyone keeps looking at me like I’m some cracked egg and they’re all just waiting for me to start leaking out. That’s the weirdest part. Everyone’s so concerned now, just sitting still or not talking. If I concentrate very hard, the headaches go away.

“Hey . . .” Dad’s voice echoed somewhere above me as if underwater or from behind a cloud of ash.

The ache between my eyes rumbled for a moment longer before clearing. I was sweating, my pulse quickened. All the muscles of my body tense.

“I’m fine.” I said it, expelling a gallon of air.

I was, really. Never felt better. The bright white-hot cringe inducing moment of pain vanished in a pond of relief. A lightheaded, almost languid good feeling invaded his senses. Processing just exactly, how atomically precise the friction of one bodily part moving against each other truly felt was such an enormity, the background just sort of shriveled away.

One thing that did concern me were all these “red spots” that seemed to be happening. That’s what I’ve been calling them. They make perfect sense to me, but my parents and my teachers all look really concerned when I talk about my “red spots” so I’ve quickly learned not to mention them. That’s the only problem I have. That’s what I want checked out. I just want to play football.

Brittney felt so fucking amazing. It was like her entire body were a light show and she—the homely caretaker—had only ever carefully cleaned the knobs and blew on the glass tubules. Now the power was on and someone hooked her up straight to power plant because it was everything she could do but straddle those pipes and holler in ecstasy as she came shouting again and again.

Any contact at all made her useless with arousal and a floaty feeling like that of an astronaut pawing uselessly at the chasms of space. Yawning like a cat, stretching out a long teasing exposed tummy to soak up the warm sunshine from inside a vacuum of perfect happiness, totally immune to worry. Captured in a luxurious abyss of black velvet, everyone one of it’s tiny furs spiralling her towards rapture.

It was unimaginable how great it felt to be fingered, in public—by my mom. The repulsion of those clinical facts inverted and magnified a thousandfold by Lori’s fingers expertly stabbing her into a chemically induced frenzy of orgasms. Mom had been acting super weird this whole last week. If Brittney had to put her finger on what exactly had changed about Mom, was that she now felt quite comfortable about fingering the hell out of me in public. Previously that had not been the case.

Lori’s hand splashed out with a pint of faintly rum smelling clear fluid. Brittney had never been that wet before and it kind of scared her. All the cursing and puffing and horse-faced ecstasy of the moment came flooding out in one spasmatic shriek. The ladies in line just smiled and fluttered happily at the exciting reminder of sex.

Reality was not reassuring. Seconds before Brittney had felt quick and athletic. Now, as she clumsily slumped against the side of the chair, she felt like some strung out Victorian wife. Laid up with laudanum in a lazy stupor. A reminder to manually breath shot a fresh batch of oxygen to her over-heated brain and at once she could see, she her predicament settled in her mind like so much silt. Brittney could feel her face blossom cherry red. A stand of wet hair ran haywire down her eye-lid and across her lips, she blew it out of the way before she spoke.

“Never! NEVER—do tha. . . that—that . . . ever.” Brittney manged to get out. Brittney heaved the words from her mind as if sunken in tar. She stared sleepily at the lobby tiles, regaining her strength. Their interlocking geometry formed a perfectly tessellated mosaic, it’s white grouted lines crossing hundreds of thousands of tiny blocks. A whole city of intersections and spaces.

Raising to meet her mother’s eyes “Ever again. Never again. You need to tell me before you—” Brittney wiggled her arm around like a snake. “Do that to me. You need to tell me. You can’t—You can’t just do that.”

Lori sighed and rolled her eyes. It would all be over so soon. Brit just had to accept it, that’s all it is. We need to come out to the city, take her out of school, and see a doctor to tell her what we already know. She’s a horny girl and needs to be fucked all the time.

“Oh, please. You were getting hysterical. Just use your vibrator if you’re feeling nervous.”

Brittney couldn’t even. “I don’t have a vibrator! Why are you being so gross?”

“What?” Lori’s brow made a nearly perfect sine-wave of surprise. “I don’t mean like your big one, I mean, like, in your purse.”

“I don’t have a vibrator.”

“Not even one in your purse?”

“I don’t have ANY vibrators! Why—where would I be getting vibrators from!”

Lori couldn’t believe it. NO vibrators? It wasn’t possible, the doctor had assured her that all girls these days have vibrators. He loved it, not having to masturbate them himself. “Not even one?”

“NONE! No vibrators!” Brittney didn’t like the dismay in her mother’s face one bit. It was like she was dissappointed my closet wasn’t bursting at the seems with blue and pink dildos gyrating in unison. “AMAZING right that I don’t have any—” Brittney tried to make a shape of what she meant in the air but gave up in frustration after half a second. “vibrators!” She couldn’t say it in anything louder than an embarrassed whisper.

Lori needed some time to consider this, reeling back. No vibrators. Either Brittney really was studying for her finals several hours a day with her door locked or she was in there using her hands like some kind of Amish butter-churner . . . It just didn’t make any sense. “So like, when you get horny—”

“MOM!”

“And there aren’t any hot boys—” Lori noticed Brittney’s sullen efforts to block out the conversation. “Or girls, hot girls are totally okay too if that’s what you’re into. You know, pussies, and vaginas, and all that. If that’s what you like—”

“OH MY GOD MOM SHUT UP!”

“Brittney SHUSH! You’re making a scene—you mean . . .” Lori looked about the room as if a conspiracy might be discovered. “to tell me that every time your father and I leave the house you’re up in your room fingering yourself—”

“NO! I’m not!’

“Why didn’t you just tell us? Masturbation is healthy! Oh if you had told us sooner we could have gone shopping!” She actually clapped her hands as she said it. The Mom Brittney knew bought all the same brand of socks and three had pairs of shoes total—including boots.

“There’s so many different types of vibrators, and like, even if you don’t like that we can pick you out a nice dildo, or like, a strap-on for friends—”

“I’m not listening to this. I’m not.”

“It’s really not that complicated, there’s just a few simple rules honey—”

Honey. Ugh, the worst.

“It’s all about matching, like . . . Bejewled or something—”

“Bejeweled? How is this anything like Bejewled?”

“Like matching! Dildos themselves aren’t that complicated right, but it’s all about pairing the right stuff together. Like let me ask you this, what kind of lube should I use with Old Gregory, my ABS plastic vibrator?”

“I don’t know!”

“How about Handsome Larry, the silicone egg, can I put that in the dishwasher?”

“NO!” Brittney hoped not.

“Brittney, please. These are all questions you can ask the doctor yourself. You can’t always count on busy lines of tan work-hardened men to just miraculously arrive cock-first in your pussy. What are you going to do, hmmm? What are you going to do when you blast off to some far-away college and have to compete against a hundred other professionally trained sluts, each one’s tender vagina steamier than the next.”

Brittney didn’t respond. She was still too exhausted, too burnt out and jazzed up from cumming her brains out on the floor to form a cogent riposte. Though instinctively she recoiled at the word vagina.

“That’s what it’s called, dear”

Brittney hated it when Mom called her dear.

“I guess . . .” She said, catching her breath. Fresh oxygen re-inflating her conscious thought processes. What would I do next year at college, when the vast menagerie of excited chaste boys unite and like Spartacus, heroically turn away their engorged dicks from my needful vagina.

“It will be none of your business.” For the first time in what felt like days, Brittney smiled.

Lori wanted to hiss at her like a cat, but . . . Brittney happy was a sight to behold. Her hair no longer looked tussled and out of place. It was straight and clean and simply parted. A smooth saddlebrown mane that fanned out at her shoulders. Not at all harried from orgasmic sweat.

When Brittney smiled, it pushed her glasses up on her face and brought out her cheeks. A tiny row of cute gorgeously white teeth poked out from between too flushed healthy full lips that were so neat and innocent and yet would look so incredible slurping the hell out of giant dicks. Her whole face clear and bright, with a sunny ‘Gotcha’ expression that knew you’ve been staring at her tits. For so long now, tank tops had been a relatively conservative dress option, but now it was kinda fun catching even other girls eye fucking the hell out of my tits.

Lori was so happy Brit was growing up. All I want is the best for Brittney. She hated the thought that Brit would be all alone in her dorm room jerking off two dudes at once and not know what it’s like to also be riding a vibrating saddle. Looking at her lithe reedy body, only just recently plumping and filling out, who’s going to want this nerdy virgin that hasn’t even gone down on any of her friends When everyone else is giving away free blowjobs and knows how to be a contributing member of an impromptu three-way, how could Brittney ever hope to be anything more than maybe sixth or seventh in the battering order of a time-share husband.

To fuck Brittney cocks had to pass through a gauntlet of wet mouths and slobbering orifices. She worried there was no way that luscious cockhead was ever going to manfully throw Brittney down onto the shag carpet floor of a respectable ranch house in the burbs’ and fuck her into a sputtering convulsing pile of charged up girl-parts. The kind of guy that doesn’t need a skinny little bitch of an Asian prostitute for weird butt-stuff after and then always act so cagey when I try to get her to teach me how to do it. There was just no way.

“Well. . . How bout this.” Lori said, finding her footing. “After this, we can go to lunch where-ever you want. Maybe go shopping too? Pick you up something nice.” The prospect of free pizza was immediately soothing.

“That—”

“Brittney! . . . Brittney Fields?” A door had opened in the far corner of the lobby and a preppy high-cheeked nurse stood there, clipboard hugged tight to her chest, calling my name. The door behind her was right at the end of a long mirror that gave the illusion the room was twice as big as it actually was. Brittney swore she heard occasional giggles from the other side.

Lori grabbed my hand excitedly. “There it is! Our turn, comon’ let’s go.”

“What! No, I’m not on board with this. I don’t want to go.” This time, Brittney really did hiss. Her voice was shrill and panicked, but not so much that she wanted to vocalize above a still quite cranky whisper.

“Stop being such a baby, comon’.” Lori’s hand reflexively started towards Brit’s panties again, but she caught herself in time. Brittney had said she didn’t like that, weirdly, and Lori wanted to show that she respected her daughter’s choices. She went for the tits again, but Brittney parried the attack.

“No! I’m not going up there, or anywhere with these people. We’ve got to get out of here, this place is fucking crazy.”

“Oh stop it. Were you not the one telling me you had questions? Weren’t you the one telling me how concerned you are with cumming all the time? These—”

“Brittney? . . . Brittney Fields?” The nurse sounded again, like a train leaving the station.

“These people are doctors. You can trust them.” Brittney didn’t look convinced. She looked ready to bolt her head swiveling madly for an exit.

“You can trust me.” Brittney still didn’t look convinced, but Lori knew she would do it.

“Bret. . . knee Fi-elds?” Pronounced fff-eye-elds, called the nurse hopefully.

“That’s me.” Brittney raised her hand, got off her seat and walked off towards the nurse like a soldier to war.