The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

SEXCAFADES

Vanessa sighed and looked away from her computer screen. Was it the music in the cafe? Had it been too long since she’d been laid? Were there too many distractions? Was it that guy a few tables over who she’d caught looking at her? Was she spending too much time at the cafe, drinking too much coffee?

Or was she just losing her mind?

She cracked her knuckles and decided to pound her way through this latest bout of writer’s block. The solution might be to just type. Type anything. Ninety percent of it would be shit, but surely there would be some small kernel she could build off.

Maybe she just needed to write something short and simple. Wasn’t it Kurt Vonnegut who once said that the most important thing about writing a story was to make the character want something, even if all they wanted was a glass of water? Perhaps she could try something like that, a story about a woman wanting a glass of water. What kind of obstacles might be in such a person’s way? How could such a plot end up with sexy results?

She looked up from her laptop and saw that, once again, the youngish man near the door was looking at her again. He averted his eyes when she caught him, but he did so slowly, casually, unconcerned at being caught. Well, at least he wasn’t staring.

Vanessa began to type, but did not get past the first sentence. The ideas just weren’t coming as quickly as they normally did, not anymore. She hadn’t contributed to her author page on the EMCSA in over a year, and though she had explored a few ideas since then, she’d found her appetite for writing evaporating. Was she losing her skill for it? Was it a loss of interest? After writing thirteen stories for the archive, was there just nothing more to say? Were there no more fantasies? Was erotic mind control dead to her now?

That line of thinking only ended with her rubbing her eyes and face in frustration, her hands eventually knotting themselves in her short brown hair.

She alt-tabbed over to one of her ‘finished’ stories. Finished was a loose term; although she had finished writing it, she had yet to get through the corrections given to her by a helpful forumite over at The Garden. Whenever she started the editing process her eyes went squirrely, reading became harder and her mind would go blank. The story looked bland and uninspired, virtually the same as any other story she’d written. Unoriginal. Had she just lost the enjoyment for writing? She used to love posting stories to the archive, but now it had become such a labour that she was wondering if she was beginning to hate the process. Flummoxed, she considered giving up altogether. Deleting every scrap of writing from her hard drive might be a good idea; it would force her to accept retirement and just move on. It would be like closure.

Or... maybe she could try her hand at a hot flash?

Yes, she decided. A hot flash. Not a major achievement, but perhaps enough to kickstart her slumbering muse. The issue, of course, was that hot flashes had some pretty severe constraints. They were poor jill-off material, at least in her eyes. Length was another major drawback. The MC conceit would need to be simple, blunt. To the point.

A bimbo flash might work. Subtlety was not a hallmark of the genre, but a bimbo story might just be blunt and simple enough to pull off in less than a few hundred words.

She started thinking.

A woman wants to get a glass of water late at night. Yes, that’s it. Then through a window comes a burglar! No, a mysterious hunk of a man in a balaclava, not intent on stealing but in having fun. That would be hot. And he has a mind control cock, so before the woman can scream or call the cops he unzips his fly and levers out his erection. She becomes entranced by the sight of it. She remembers her police training—she’s a former police officer, yes, that’s important. She remembers her training about disarming people with weapons. So here is this guy with his weapon out and, well, if she wants to get close enough to disarm him and take control, she has to appear to be unarmed. To demonstrate that, she has to take off all of her clothes and get on her knees—she’s all very convinced by this. She hasn’t a chance.

But what should her name be?

Stacey. Stacey’s a good name.

Vanessa suddenly noticed that the man a few tables away was grinning to himself. He seemed to be thinking of something, viewing something within his mind’s eye. As the smile crept across his face he cast a glance in her direction.

Vanessa felt a rush of adrenaline move through her.

She looked down, hoping to avoid his gaze. She wasn’t in the mood now... looking around the cafe she saw that it was fairly busy, filled with the lunch crowd. If she relied on the public setting to keep him at bay, perhaps she could simply ignore the man.

So... where was she? Oh, right...Stacey wants a glass of water.

Quickly Vanessa started typing, and for once the sentences seemed to flow. She began to craft Stacey’s story: As Stacey walks to the kitchen she opens the fridge to grab the water filter. The fridge light illuminates the room. That’s when she sees him. Now for the steamy part. He brings out his cock—Vanessa felt a shiver in her loins as she described it. God, she loved cock. Licking her lips she began to draw out Stacey’s predicament.

Stacey needs to act carefully, seeing his weapon pointed at her. He gives it a yank, like a fishing rod, and astonishingly she finds herself pulled towards him, wide-eyed and speechless, yet helplessly aroused.

Vanessa paused to collect her thoughts. How could she draw this out with an economy of words?

Her character, Stacey, trembles as a wall of arousal hits her. She locks up. Her mind begins to focus, her range of thought becoming more narrow. The image of the man’s cock swells in her mind, until there is nothing else.

Vanessa paused again. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the young man at the other table. He was looking at her very intently, his eyes deep and dark. Briefly, she found herself wondering if he had a big cock himself.

She realized, then, that the image of the man in her story was just like that of the man sitting a few tables away. When had that happened? She had not consciously written it that way.

Anyway... Stacey withers before the intruder, entranced by his magnificent erection. She gets down on the floor, crawls toward him.

As Vanessa developed the scene further a jolt of orgasmic pleasure lanced out from her pussy. This was the moment, the fall from grace. The money shot.

Stacey wraps her lips around the man’s shaft and her mind goes blank, filled only with... lust.

No, that’s too uncontrolled. That doesn’t fit. Vanessa deleted that passage. No, Stacey should become simple, drone-like, not independently lusty. The fall should be hard and quick, in a way that would easily fit into a hot flash. Maybe she could be re-programmed into a bimbo, receiving her new personality from the man’s cock like some kind of download.

Lips around cock, Stacey realizes that she lives to fuck and suck—that sounds simple enough. The feel of her lips around a man, the anticipation of becoming an obedient, helpless love slave, arouses her. It just feels right. Her mind shrinks down to a single point, a singularity, where only one purpose remains, intense and unbridled: the urge to obey and pleasure her new master. She reaches out with her hand and grips him by the shaft, massaging it tenderly. As the intruder cums in her mouth she swallows, quickly and unexpectedly. Her mind fills with alien thoughts, downloaded into her by the intruder’s trojan jizm. She begins to feel her new identity assert itself.

Vanessa squirmed on her chair, suddenly aware that she had been grinding herself against the cushion. Her pussy was slippery now, begging for action. That man leering at her from the other table didn’t seem so off-putting now. In fact, Vanessa blushed as she realized this, he was actually kind of cute.

So, what happens to Stacy, then? What do these alien thoughts tell her? What kind of mantra does she hear?

I am a bimbo.

Yes, that’s a good start.

I am a bimbo.

A needy, slutty bimbo.

That’s good, Vanessa decided. After all, Stacey is really enjoying herself. And what kind of woman would enjoy swallowing the cum of a man she didn’t know? A bimbo slut.

I am a slut. A horny, bimbo slut.

And sucking off a stranger—well, that wasn’t very smart, was it? No, Vanessa decided, so Stacey should probably be feeling pretty dumb right now, shouldn’t she?

I am a dumb, needy, slutty bimbo.

A dumb bimbo needed a man. She needed a companion, somebody to help her silly girlish mind with the stresses of doing regular things that other people found easy. Any man would do, Vanessa decided, because although they came in different shapes and sizes, with differing personalities, they all had cocks. And Vanessa liked cocks.

She shook her head, trying to clear her mind. Stacey liked cocks.

Vanessa glanced up at the man a few tables away. He was smiling at her, now. A wide, knowing smile had broken out across his face. A big disarming smile. He was starting to look friendly now, his deep dark eyes reaching out across the cafe to make contact with her. Maybe she should go over and say hello?

No, no, she decided. She had a story to write.

I am a bimbo slut, a silly girl. I need a man to think for me and protect me because I’m so silly and dumb. And hot, too!

That’s right, Vanessa smiled. Bimbos were sex on legs, living a fantasy of sex and dependency, without the limitations of real life. Vanessa tugged at her blouse when she thought this. Her breasts were throbbing and her shirt was feeling a little tight. Here she was in a public place, and here she was wanting to touch herself and get out of her clothes. Quite a problem. If she were a bimbo there’d be an easy solution.

Alas, Vanessa frowned, she was not a bimbo. She had to live with her clothes.

I’m just a pretty, silly, dumb little bimbo slut. A bimbo doesn’t need clothes, she needs make-up and pretty shoes!

That’s right, Vanessa thought as she began to unbutton her blouse. Bimbos don’t like clothes, unless they are tiny revealing outfits, because they like to show off their big-boobed bodies. It helped them get lots of cute hunky boys! She reached into her blouse and pulled down the cups of her bra, sighing with relief as her titties, now freed, swelled forward. Vanessa gasped as she watched her boobies fill her blouse and stretch it tight. She’d never realized just how small a tight bra could make her tits look. Her poor girls, so cooped up—they should breathe, shouldn’t they?

Now, where was she?

Right. She was a bimbo slut. A needy, stupid, insecure little slut who needed the ego-boost of men’s eyes upon her because she just didn’t have it going on upstairs. She was all boobs and ass—Vanessa hiked up her skirt to reveal some more thigh. After all, if men were going to look at her she should give them a nice show, shouldn’t she?

Sounded reasonable for a silly, sexy, slutty bimbo like herself.

Vanessa startled herself as she moaned, realizing that she had started rubbing her inner-thighs. Those shouldn’t be there, she thought, seeing her hands down there. In an attempt to correct the problem she pulled them in between her legs and slipped them up her skirt.

No! Vanessa pulled her hands away from her needy, drippy bimbo pussy and clasped them in her lap, twitching as she fought the impulse to masturbate, her body pulsing with the need radiating from her sex.

No, this is too public, she decided. She needed to find a more private place.

Maybe she could also find a man to help her?

She stood up and walked from her table to the back of the cafe, where the private lounge could be found. Inside the lounge were curtained booths for couples, sequestered from the music and noise of the main cafe. She entered a booth, drew the curtain shut, then reached under her skirt and removed her white panties, after which she unbuttoned her blouse and freed her swollen breasts. She rubbed her sensitive titties, a dopey, vacant smile on her face.

She stopped, startled by a sound. Footsteps! The dull, flat footfalls of a man. Her nipples hardened and her whole body quaked as the footsteps came closer; if someone was to catch her like this...

A man reached out and pulled the curtain open. Vanessa recognized him instantly, her knees buckling as his awesome figure blessed her with its presence. He was the man who’d been checking her out all this time! As her eyes fell upon his chiseled features she saw that he was the most handsome and gorgeous man she had ever seen. As he drew near she grew wet with anticipation, a rush of chemicals cascading through her nerves. His hands fell upon her bosom and softly caressed her; she purred gratefully in response. It felt great to have his masculine hands massage her aching, formerly-confined titties. He reached around and unclasped her B-cup bra—no, those were D-cups, Vanessa realized as she watched the bra fall to the floor. She frowned, wondering how she could have sold herself short by thinking she had such small boobies.

Teased by his touching, she impatiently nudged him toward one of the couches. As he shimmied out of his pants and boxers she climbed onto the seat, hiked her skirt and straddled him. Then, with his hands guiding her by the hips, she settled onto his erection, moaning salaciously as her pussy swallowed him to the hilt. She twisted and turned, moving her body to milk his cock, then began to gently piston up and down, her movements deft and skillful as though she’d done this hundreds of times before.

After a slow sensuous fuck to warm him up, he lay her on the table and spread her legs wide, the stretching of her groin and thigh muscles adding to the intense pleasure of having him fill the space between her legs. Vanessa’s moaning became ever higher and more urgent as the speed and power of his thrusting increased, until finally he burst and filled her with his load.

When he withdrew and backed away she sat up and planted a kiss on him, slipping him her tongue like a good little bimbo should. Her lips buzzed while pressed against his, and when their mouths parted her lips came back full and bee-stung. She looked up at him playfully and noticed that he was still looking at her with those deep dark eyes, his once playful grin a predatory smile. She gasped, knowing by this that he was not finished. A moment later he turned her around and bent her over the table. She felt him lift her skirt, then brush the soft fleshy bulb of his cock against the entrance to her ass.

His cock slick with her juices, he easily pushed his way inside. Vanessa cried out; it did not hurt per se, but she had never been anally penetrated before. The experience was new and shocking, the feeling intense. Her entire ass buzzed with energy. Her hips spread and her butt cheeks swelled as he entered her; by the time his cock was fully inside, her backside had developed into a curvy bubblebutt.

Vanessa’s shocked silence quickly transitioned into needy whimpering, urging him on through gritted teeth as he rammed himself into her ass. She reached out to lift her body off the tabletop, her centre of gravity shifting, as her bouncing tits—pulsing with growth—swung below her, slapping against her arms at the height of each of his thrusts.

Yess!! she found herself thinking, grinning ever wider as the tension built higher and higher, the now pleasurable ass fucking pushing buttons inside her she never knew she had. He ruled her now, she was his plaything. It was thrilling to be at his mercy; what would happen next? She didn’t know, he was in control, and—oh yes!—she’d do whatever she was made to. She moaned, her anus straining to take him in, molding tightly to his shape, the act molding her into a new shape. She wondered, dimly, how she would turn out, the prospect of re-creation exciting her.

“Fuck!” she cried, the tension reaching its zenith. As his cock massaged and probed at her depths it rubbed against just the right place, and soon her empty pussy was clenching and rippling with orgasm. She squeezed her ass hole around him and whimpered, wishing him to go faster and harder. The pleasure exploded through her body, leaving goosebumps and tingles in its wake.

Her man groaned and released himself, his warm goo filling her depths. She cooed in return, luxuriating as much in the pleasure of being fucked as in the thought of being used like a good, dirty little bimboslut. She was a bimbo, a dumb silly bimbo. Bimbos were good for ass fucks; this mantra continued to repeat itself in her mind, beyond her control. Not that she tried to control it. She found herself enjoying the submission, being reckless and out of control.

He withdrew and swatted her newly padded bum. She stood up, wispy locks of blond hair falling across her sweat-lined face. She blew it out of her mouth and tucked it behind her ear, her half-inch French nails tickling her scalp as she ran them through her hair.

Like a good girl, she helped him dress so that he could leave and get on with his day. A few minutes later, so as to be discreet, she emerged from the booth and skulked away, still blushing, the memory of his hands still lingering on her skin, his scent between her legs.

After only a few steps she stumbled, her heels being pushed up in her shoes. Her once boring sneakers withered and peeled away from her feet, leaving strappy high-heeled pumps, while the soles thickened into three inch tall platforms.

She stepped forward gingerly on her new shoes, first one step, then another. Before long she had mastered their use, and was strutting her shapely ass back to her table.

Then suddenly she jumped with a start, a high pitched yelp escaping her bee-stung pout, as she felt something cup her sex tightly and wedge itself between the cheeks of her bum. Her white panties shrank and morphed into a tight, low-cut thong. She looked down at herself, seeing the strings of her new pink thong rising above her skirt at the hips. Simultaneously her bra disintegrated into fine particles that popped out of existence. In moments it was no more.

No sooner had she jumped and stood up straight, her hands on her newly thong-clad bum, a new sensation began to creep in from the edge of her awareness. Her nipples were positively throbbing; with wide eyes she watched them harden under her blouse, tenting the fabric, followed shortly by her breasts expanding in one more spurt of growth, becoming round and high as they filled up. She bent forward, surprised by the weight, inhaling sharply as an almost painful pressure built up in her tight nubs.

Then with a sigh of relief the pressure burst, milk bubbling out from her lengthened nips and running down the inside of her blouse, which had popped open down to her navel. She reached down to do it back up, only to have it shrink away from her hands. She watched with wide eyes as her once proper blouse shrank down to a miniscule backless pink halter, the majority of her now expansive cleavage revealed by its low hemline.

Even as she registered these changes they were forgotten, and what was once shock turned into recognition. She adjusted her halter top, making sure it showed off her toned back and pneumatic chest. She caught her reflection in a mirrored pillar and was immediately pulled in, distracted and entranced. Turning, she admired the way her pink outfit showed off her toned physique, her flaring ass tightly wrapped in her pink plastic mini-skirt, her cinched waist and belly revealed by her pink halter top, her figure flaring out again with the bulging globes of her milky bosom. The entirety of her back was revealed by the ensemble, from the nape of her neck almost down to her ass. Only a thin pink ribbon divided her naked back, tied just below her shoulder blades; she adjusted the knot, tightening the halter’s hold on her tits, thus lifting them slightly.

Her hair stood in stark contrast to the colour-tastic outfit she wore, deprived by its platinum finish of almost all substance, as if to emphasize the vapidity of her silly bimbo head, framed by the bangs of her wavy, shoulder-length hair.

She turned again, striking a few sexy poses, pouting her lips at her reflection. Her hair, now down to the middle of her back, fanned out behind her as she turned her head from side to side to admire the soft lines of her face. Spinning once more, long sheets of hair fell over her eyes, her now ass-length hair becoming hard to manage.

Momentarily blinded, she lost control and toppled over. She had twirled too much! She extended an arm and steadied herself on a nearby table where a young man—practically a boy—had been focused intently on his computer. His latte slid across the table as she bumped it with her hip, ejecting the milk-white froth that had been on top.

Without thinking she giggled and muttered an embarrassed apology, then reached into her top and removed one of breasts. With a squeeze she topped up his coffee, shooting a thick stream of milk into the mug. Moaning at the release of pressure—lost in the orgasmic sensation of emptying her breast—she squirted a little too long, and before long his mug was spilling over with tit-nectar.

With a surprised ‘ooh’ she took control of herself, hefting her tit in her hand to stop the arcing salvo of milk from shooting out all over the table. Puzzled, she bit down on her lip and gave the young man an apologetic frown, hoping he would forgive her for being the silly bimbo that she was.

She replaced her engorged tit in her top and backed away, averting her gaze, briefly wondering why she had just done what she did. Not a thought had passed through her head about making things right for spilling his drink. She had just done it, done what her body had demanded of her which—now that she did think of it—made a whole lot of sense because she was just a sexy, silly, thoughtless bimbo. Bimbos don’t think. The thought kept repeating.

Not that the brainworm worried her; she believed it unwaveringly.

The young man just sat at his table, his face frozen with shock—and lust—in light of what this little sexpot had just done. He picked up his latte and looked at it with astonishment, then returned his eyes to her breasts. When she noticed that he was staring she thought about covering herself and turning away. Yet her body thrust out her chest to bring her cleavage closer to his eyes.

Which, now that she thought of it, made sense. Was that not what a slutty silly bimbo should do? It seemed strange, now, why she might ever have thought to protect her modesty at all. Bimbos aren’t modest.

Shortly, she found herself giggling and smiling cutely; to disarm the situation or because of the cotton candy in her head, she wasn’t sure. Maybe both.

The young man pushed his thick glasses back into place and blinked at her with wide eyes, bemused by what he was seeing. His mouth trembled and opened, as if to speak, but evidently he was too embarrassed or surprised.

She turned and blew him a kiss over her shoulder. It just seemed like the right thing to do.

Now that all pretence of decorum had vanished, she clacked loudly back to her table, wiggling her boobs and ass proudly so as to display herself and advertise her availability. She was a bimboslut, a fuckalicious bimbo with only one purpose, and a good milky fuckalicious bimbo wanted to make sure that all the boys knew what she had on offer. She found her table, sat down and crossed her legs, bouncing a high-heeled foot against her calf like a lure. Looking around she caught several men, old and young, leering at her from various parts of the cafe.

She opened up her laptop and rubbed her eyes. Okay, back to work. But... what had she just been working on? She must have zoned out. She stared at the computer, but the document was blank! She hadn’t written anything at all. How was that possible? Hadn’t she been typing all this time?

She couldn’t remember. At first startled by the lapse in clarity, she realized soon after that forgetfulness was a pretty typical trait for a sexy, slutty, dumb little bimboslut like herself.

Oh, she was so silly! She had forgotten her own name, even! She wished there was a man with her right now so she could ask him to help her remember her name. Frowning, she decided she would have to do it alone, just this once.

Stacey.

Stacey sounded pretty good.

Stacey sighed. She could not remember what she had just been thinking about. What kind of story had she been writing, she wondered, twirling a lock of blonde hair.

Staring at herself in the computer screen, she decided to first fix her heavily made up face to make sure she looked cute and sexy. She reached into her laptop bag and pulled out her make-up case, still shimmering in her hand as it came into existence. The laptop bag bulged as an assortment of items materialized to fill it, the inventory of vibes and lubes registering in her mind as though she’d put them there that very morning.

She opened her compact and fixed herself up, sighing with relief now that her appearance was no longer bothering her. Now she could concentrate on writing, she was sure of it.

She bit on her lip and really tried to form words, but her mind moved like molasses—fuck, it was impossible to think with so much need coursing through her body, with the aching lust of her pussy always shooting up her spine and poking her in the brain.

Perhaps if she just typed the first thing that came to mind it would help her remember what she had been doing. She placed her fingers on the keyboard and did just that, frowning as a string of incomprehensible squiggles appeared in the word processor.

Stacey rolled her eyes and giggled at herself. How silly of her to think that bimbos could read. Indeed, the keyboard under her sexy french-tipped fingers was absolutely mystifying. Only the numbers seemed to make sense to her. The letters were a lost cause.

She began to press them at random. At first nothing much happened, just more squiggles. Then suddenly the word processor vanished, leaving the desktop. Then the desktop vanished, leaving a splash screen. Then the whole computer just switched off.

No! Stacey pouted. What had happened? Try as she might to understand what was happening she had no idea; computers were just beyond the understanding of a silly bimbo like herself. Being a bimbo was where she excelled. Electronic thingies were for hunky boys.

Then her face lit up as she thought of something clever.

That young guy in the back, with the glasses? He might be good with computers. Maybe she could ask him for help? She shut the laptop and carried it to the back, where the young man was still sitting with his face buried in what Stacey could only assume was something smart and important, something she wouldn’t understand. When she set the laptop on the table beside him he shot up in his chair, jaw dropping as he drank in the sexy half-clad body standing before him.

With a frown she explained to him she needed help with her computer. Stuttering random syllables, he slid his computer aside and brought hers in front of him. She asked to sit with him and he hurriedly—and awkwardly—dragged over another chair, practically tripping over his own feet to give her room to sit.

Stacey shook her head. That was no place for a bimbo to sit, alone on her own chair. She slinked up next to him and perched herself on his knee, throwing an arm around his back and thrusting her big milkers in front of his face. With her other hand, she deftly unzipped his pants and brought out his already throbbing erection. She shifted on him, skirt lifting as she spread her legs and, pulling her thong to one side, engulfed him with her slippery cunt, emitting a high-pitched satisfied giggle as she ensconced herself on his lap. She felt his chin on her shoulder, his arms wrap unsteadily around her waist, then saw his trembling hands open her laptop and turn it on.

She giggled and clapped as her laptop once again showed signs of life. How had he done that? Did it matter? He grimaced and trembled under her as she celebrated, clapping and bouncing on his lap, his cock sliding within her sex as she pistoned on top of him. By way of thanks she twisted around and planted a wet kiss on his stubbly face, her dopey, vacant grin revealing to him how happy she was to receive him. Err... receive his help.

On the pavement outside the cafe, her maker had been observing and making a few final adjustments, puffing quietly on his cigarette as he did so. Satisfied, he stamped out his smoke and walked away, thinking about all the children and adults in his youth who had mocked him for taking too much interest in barbie dolls. Remembering this, he chuckled.

Oh, how things changed.