The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Fog flowed between weatherworn gravestones and, in minutes, blanketed an entire cemetery harshly dropping the temperature. Whistling wind tore the last few dry leaves from surrounding trees. If a careful ear listened, rock grinding sounds emanated from a family crypt, where a center stone from a Greek style façade pushed out and dropped to the ground. A woman’s voice grunted as another stone came loose creating an opening just big enough for Pinocchia’s head with her miniature Pinocchio hat to emerge. She withdrew into the darkness of the crypt, pushed out another stone, and began climbing out only to find a tight fit around her breasts. Squeezing through, she was careful not to snag her mesh stockings.

An envelope she carried with her was bigger than other official party invitations and now that she was in the right location, she ripped the envelope open. Inside, she found a tiny scroll of parchment and a corked test tube with a powdered spell. “Read to Wolf,” was the only scribbled instructions followed by wording for a verbal invitation.

Who, or maybe what, the hell was Wolf? Couldn’t Wicky be a little more specific? She looked around the cemetery. Maybe Wolf was the grounds keeper or maybe a werewolf was on the loose. Or maybe, ew-yuck, she was going to hate this invitation.

Pinocchia began reading the names of the headstones. She couldn’t find a single ‘Wolf’ among them. She did a second crossing pattern among the stones and still no ‘Wolf.’ As she tried to figure out what to do, she saw a neglected corner of the cemetery with a hidden marker.

“There you are,” she said pushing the tall grass away and reading the desired name. She popped the cork on the vial, scattered the powdered spell over the grave, and ended-up jumping back when the dirt shook followed by a boney hand and arm reaching out from six-feet under.

“You are corpulently invited,” she read out loud from the miniature scroll, “I think that was supposed to read ‘cordially,’ but you never know, do ya? Hey!”

The hand grabbed her right ankle and pulled her off her feet. She landed on her butt and tried to kick at the bones while it dragged her towards the dug out hole.

“I haven’t finished yet!”

Her high-heeled foot went in the dirt and then her lower leg. She started to do a fast announcement from the tiny scroll, “You are ‘cordially,’ cordially mind you! Invited this Halloween. Just walk into the fog that night. There I’m done.”

Her right leg was pulled down to her hip contorting her other leg behind her. Her hands pushed against the muddy ground, but she couldn’t extract herself. The buried creature sent up its other boney hand. It grabbed her boob giving her a good hard squeeze.

She looked down. “Are we done?”

The boney hand’s fingers twiddled a bit while still groping her breast.

“Fine. You can do the other one too.”

She felt the hand pull away and slap around her other boob.

“Hey. Be gentle! Now, you ARE done.”

She got a boney thumbs-up as the perverted skeleton hand withdrew into the torn burial site.

“I hate giving out invitations to ghouls.”

She pulled her leg out finding her stockings torn and leg bloodied from several scrapes. “Bastard.” She reached down her cleavage and retrieved a vial of white liquid that, when she applied to the wounds, washed the injuries away. It still left torn stockings and that meant one thing she did not want to deal with.

Waiting for her costume to repair itself, she stood and gritted her teeth. Maybe she should bite down on something like a stick. She could feel her costume’s displeasure at being torn and soiled. It didn’t care that she had just been groped, that is, unless there were muddy finger marks left behind on her silk blouse. She realized it could have happened and looked down. Great, her chest was going to hurt too. Electricity danced over her skin. The mesh stocking healed itself and the electricity shocked her for every torturously long second needed to blow the mud away as bone-dry dust.

Cleaned and ready, she reached for the next envelope stuffed in the rear of her short shorts. It too was larger than normal and, this time, she knew she should take time to prepare for what was ahead. Opening it, she found a standard fancy wax sealed invitation, an unexpected tube of lipstick, and a scribbled note: ‘Kiss them.’ The invite envelope had a rooftop European castle address.

“Oh no! Gargoyles. I hate Gargoyles.”

She reentered the dark crypt, heaved the three heavy stones back inside with her, and began pushing them outwards into place. Just using this secret passage was going to sully her costume again. This was going to be a dreadfully painful day.

As the last stone went into place, a grounds keeper holding a lantern in the fog and accompanied by a scared shivering dog, watched from a distance. What he had just witnessed, he wasn’t certain. He finished his whiskey and discarded the empty bottle into some bushes.

In the new spell room, Octopussy’s tentacles sucked against a large spell book page and made a huge effort to turn it. The little octopus was looking for a hex, more of an anti-hex, so that she could undo a spell that prevented her from leaving the spell room. There wasn’t much time, so she grabbed some items and squirmed over to the fireplace cauldron using her suction cups to hold herself upside down from a stone arch above the cast iron pot.

Behind a nearby wall of glass, deep under water, the topless mermaid waved her hands. She swam to the corner and motioned to break something into pieces before mixing into boiling cauldron. The octopus held up its tentacle points, one at a time. Each pinched a different herb. The mermaid touched her nose on the fifth item: goat’s ear leaves. The cephalopod broke the leaves to bits and flashed a happy green color back to the mermaid.

As the octopus worked, the back wall of the fireplace abruptly opened and the cauldron slid to the side. Octopussy dropped to the edge of the pot sizzling a couple limbs. She quickly hid behind some firewood.

Wicky was wheeled in through the fireplace secret passage. The German and Swedish maids helped their mistress into a standing position.

“Do you smell burnt calamari?” asked Wicky.

In the fish tank, the mermaid placed seaweed tassels on her nipples and began to shift her tatas enough to give the tassels a circular swinging motion, which appeared to be difficult to achieve under water.

Wicky put her hands on her hips in disdain. “Blasted mermaids.”

Octopussy took advantage of the show to squeeze under a workbench and get away from the cauldron. Had the mermaid risked punishment to help her?

In a high rise penthouse, a secret passage was formed behind a built-in bookcase and Pinocchia gave a strong push behind the shelves to swing them out into a living room space as if the shelving had always been hinged to open near the room’s fireplace.

Music played out on a balcony as billionaire Rod Getz looked out over the city nightscape with his latest girlfriend, Cassandra, a supermodel that he wanted to bed.

Pinnochia went unnoticed as she stood there surveying the luxury flat with its marble floors, paintings and untouched piano. She was happy to have a simple human invitation this time. She took a moment to find a good place to shelve a first edition of ‘Alice in Wonderland’ that she had brought with her. A bookcase on the other side of the mantle was perfect for a new passageway, so she inserted the edition there between a copy of “The Joy of Sex” and “Tantra for Dummies.”

She tried to sneak over to the balcony, but was discouraged by her wooden high heels unintentionally hammering away. She only got a few steps in before she stopped and attempted to kick and push the shoes off. The wooden heels held, so she balanced on one leg like a flamingo and folded the other leg under herself enough to get a grip on its high heel to tug the confounded shoe off. She really was cursed and glued into her puppet costume.

She switched to tiptoeing to the balcony doors making even sharper tap dancer shoe sounds. It was hopeless. “Fuck-it,” she whispered as she stopped worrying about being conspicuous and strutted right over to the balcony like it was her house.

“Oh Rod, the view is so beautiful,” said the model trying so hard to impress.

“Yes Cassandra,” said Rod, a tall handsome businessman who could run for President. “Would you like more wine?”

“No, I’m good, Rod.” She had added an extra bit of breathiness when saying his name.

Pinocchia loved watching the blatant transparency of both sides and the huge dichotomy that was getting in their way. These two would never get together. His short-term goals of immediate sex conflicted with her long-term goals of getting an upfront commitment. How the human race ever procreated beyond caveman times was a mystery to her. Despite the huge gap in goals, the two kept playing the game.

“I have a yacht over in Sausalito. We should take it out tomorrow, after breakfast.”

“Oooo,” said Cassandra pursing her lips.

Pinocchia giggled. This woman was a must to have at the party.

Through the glass sliding door, Rod noticed Pinocchia standing behind a curtain watching. “I’ll be right back. Just enjoy the view.”

“I will Rod. I will. I promise. It’s beautiful.” She flung her hair back dramatically and smiled with a wink.

Pinocchia covered her mouth, but audibly snorted.

Rod quickly entered the living room and rapidly closed the sliding door to the balcony, locked it and closed the curtains. He addressed Pinocchia like scolding a pet for clawing at the curtains. “What the deuce are you doing her Apples?”

Pinocchia didn’t understand the ‘Apples’ part, but replied anyway, “I just need to leave this invitation for you and then I’m off.”

“Who is this?” asked Cassandra as she stepped into the living room through another sliding door mirroring the locked doorway. She checked out Pinocchia’s busty blouse and strategic nipple-covering suspenders plus the stockings and short shorts. “Did you hire a hooker?”

Rod shook his head searching for away out from where all this was going.

Pinnochia saw the regret in his face—not because he was caught with another woman, but because he was disappointed with himself for not checking the other door. This problem must have happened before. But she didn’t care about everyone’s motives and actions. “You can bring her too,” she added enjoying the awkward situation. “In fact you have to now. Wicky will insist.”

Rod escorted Cassandra to the front door with such urgency that he almost lifted her off the floor. “I need to handle this. I’ll call you. Go downstairs and the limo will take you anywhere you need.”

“What is this? Wait, my purse! I thought you loved me. Who is that slut?”

Rod handed Cassandra her purse and slammed the door. “Apples, so help me I’ll whip you again.”

“What are you talking about? Apples?”

“You’re Apples—OK I’m sorry, your pony play name was Apples.”

“You’ve seen me before?”

“Last year. Don’t play dumb.” Rod crossed the room and stopped at the bookshelf, now rotated out over his oriental rug. He ignored its odd placement after doing a quick peek behind it noting a solid wall. He focused back to the books, searched the titled bindings, and pulled out a coffee table sized atlas of pictures. “I had this custom printed to remember you girls by.” He handed her the book. “Inside, page 133.”

She flipped the pages and there she was wearing leather straps and a black brocade bikini over mesh dancers tights. She looked closer. Despite the strap going down between the eyes and around the cheeks, it was clear: “That’s my twin.” Suddenly her nose grew. “I mean that’s me.” Her nose didn’t grow.

“Wooh, that’s cute.”

She tried to hide her nose. Most humans freak out the first time they see a working spell. Oddly, Rod was calm about it. “You’ve seen spells before?”

“Of course, look closer at the ponygirls. Don’t you remember?”

She examined her picture. The tights stopped just above some fur that blended into hooved feet. She had a tail and horse ears—it was just like Forte, real appendages not just costuming. But the picture couldn’t be her, she was a scarecrow for several years – or she thought she was.

“Once I saw you growing hooves like that, I canceled a dozen medical research projects. I needed to understand what I had witnessed. We still haven’t even started to figure out how you did it. I see you got your feet back though.”

“We’ll anyway. My name’s Pinocchia—I guess now, that is—not Apples, and I need to have you read this, but don’t open it until the day of Halloween.” She handed him a fancy envelope sealed with a disk of wax. “Figure out a way to bring Cassandra too. Your life depends on it.” As Rod held the envelope flat in his hand, she took a pen and wrote ‘+Cassandra’ next to the fancy script of Rod’s name. It was like she flirtatiously wrote a phone number on his palm, but the invite had gotten in the way.

“What is this?”

“You’re invited to the manor this Halloween night.”

“Can’t go. Already engaged in something else.”

She held up a cock ring. “Let me convince you otherwise.”

“Convince away, but it won’t change anything.”

She unzipped his pants and kneeled before him.

“You are something Apples.”

“Pinocchia. And we’ll need to push this in place first,” she said while undoing his belt and opening his paints. She gently pulled his left ball through the cock ring. She looked-up and saw him ambivalently watching – that is, trying to act indifferent. His dick was showing his real interest as it started to expand. She quickly led his right ball through the ring and before his penis became erect she got it through the ring as well.

“It’s going to be hard to do this with that nose of yours,” he added with a smug look.

“I’ll manage,” she said pushing her face forward, hesitating, turning, pulling back, turning the other direction and pausing again. She then aimed her extended nose up to the side and began to lick.

“Oh man. Can we get to the couch? I’ll enjoy this better sitting down.”

His dick became huge reaching a size that clearly took Rod by surprise. He stepped backwards hoping to reach a place to sit. It took a few steps before he finally fell into a plush seat. While he retreated, she had to keep crawling on her knees to keep-up with him, which she did not appreciate when her knees left the carpet and crossed the hard stone floor. It was worth it though. She had him now.

He sat back breathing hard. His eyes widen at the size of his dick and the beautiful woman who licked her tongue up and down its length, occasionally attempting to fit its large tip in her mouth.

“Please Apples, slow down. I want to enjoy this.”

“I told you I’m not Apples.” She stood, wiped her hot dog shaped nose and walked away leaving his hard dick pointing to the open balcony windows.

“What happened?”

“I’m done.”

“Ok. Sorry. What was the name? Pino? Shit, I listened to you, honest. I’m just a little excited here.” He massaged his pole hoping to continue the dance. “It’s bigger than ever. Come-on. Let’s use it.”

She ignored him; after all he was trapped now. She then pretended to search around the penthouse, tipping over little knickknacks and tapping a couple keys on the piano like it could be a secret combination. She checked her white-gloved fingertip. “Hm, dusty.”

“Sorry, really. Comeback. Pinnacle, please. Or was it Pistachio? What are you doing? Can’t you see you gave me an indestructible hard-on?”

“I know.” She walked back over to the built-in bookshelf that was still properly installed and tilted back the one book she had placed there. The pivoted book acted as a switch and the cabinet swung open to a new secret passage formed in the cement wall behind. She tucked her book under her arm and gave Rod a disappointed smirk. Guys were just too easy. “Your dick stays up until you join us at the party this Halloween.”

“What! What do you mean?” Rod stood with his pants at his ankles.

“Don’t bother with any doctors. It’s just going to stay up far longer than four hours. You’ll have to wait the whole week. And I wouldn’t recommend trying to cut the metal.”

“Wait! Don’t go. Is this that Victorian house with the stables where you played as Ponygirl Apples? Do I go there?”

“Look at the invite no sooner than Halloween. Otherwise it stays blank and you’ll never find where the manor moved to this year.”

“Moved? What about my dick? I can’t do business like this! Halloween is a week away!”

As Rod waddled over with his paints hobbling his ankles, she calmly entered the secret passage way. She stuck her head back out to add, “It’s just a few days and you’ll figure something out.” She checked her nose. It didn’t grow. “See, you will,” she added pointing at her nose.

The bookcase rotated back into position as if it had never opened.

Rod didn’t know what to do. He was used to being in control. He pulled his pants up and ran to the closing bookshelf. Grabbing some books, he began tossing them to the floor. His pants fell to his ankles again letting his erect dick slap across everything on the third shelf as he searched. Had she taken whatever opened bookcase? How did she do that? He paused, took in a deep breath, and with a building rage pulled the whole shelf to the floor. There was no opening behind it.

“Come on Apples,” he yelled. “I mean Pinot Noir. Um, no, Picasso. Pablo Pastiche! Pandora! I can’t remember, Apples! Come back!“

“Please maison, make the quills stop,” said Francette to the ceiling of her bedroom using her horrible porno-movie French. “They stick me all of the body, no?”

She heard the servant bell. She checked that her hair was properly pinned-up after being teased to add volume. Then she inspected her fluffy skirt, make-up, silly useless doily-sized apron, and lacy tiny bonnet. She also checked her nose ring. It still hurt where it snapped through her nasal septum, but now was not the time to think about that. The bell rang again.

“I must the hurry, no?”

The room shook and a bedside table drawer with matches and a candle opened.

“I’m not finding the good places to hide that,” she said patting her tight corset.

The drawer extended a bit further.

“Oui. Who am I but the silly maid to argue with the maison.” She struggled to wrap her arms around her layers of feathered petticoats compressing them enough to reach her panties. Fighting the obscured view, she decided there wasn’t enough time to find her stocking tops, so once again she tucked the candle in the back of her down-feather ruffled panties by sticking it through a leg hole. She dropped a few matches down her cleavage and regretted doing so when she felt them wedge down too far. She would have to readjust things later when hopefully she could stick the candle in her stocking top like a femme fatale would position a dagger or a gun.

Downstairs, she stopped halfway across the main hall when she heard someone call to her.

“Francette,” said Forte. “Please escort our guests to the library. I will retrieve our mistress.”

Standing by the vault-sized front door was a woman in a shiny latex Black Widow spider costume. She had a splotch of red on her cinched belly. The contrasting color extended down over the gusset going between her legs onto the underside of her spider abdomen section attached behind her. The abdomen was spherical, a black latex Swedish Exercise ball. The rubber ball pressed down the backsides of her human legs, which along with her neck and head were not covered in latex. She wore stockings over her human legs and stood proudly in high heels. The stockings, shoes and a choker were her only clothing as the latex surfaces seemed more a part of her now. Her arms and hands, all eight sets, were covered in the black shiny latex. The extra three sets of arms were positioned down the sides of her human rib cage. It was hard not to notice her nipples pushing out against the rubber emphasizing her breasts’ perkiness.

“This way. Oui?” said Francette with the required curtsy.

The Spider returned a look that was technically polite, but horribly sinister. “My cart is outside. Can you retrieve it? I’ll walk myself to the library. I know where it is.”

“Of course, madam.” Francette curtsied again and nodded to the German maid, who happened to arrive and decided to stay off to the side. Normally, one maid would accompany a guest, but any excuse to avoid this one was appreciated.

Just outside the front door in the cold wind, both maids found a large hotel laundry hamper on wheels. Inside were what looked like volley balls. One maid pushed and the other pulled. They struggled to lift the tiny wheels over the threshold of the door. Moving the cart sent high pitch squeaking shrills echoing around the main hall. There was no speed, slow or fast, to avoid the noise.

Approaching the library, Francette could hear over the noise that the spider was talking with Wicky now.

“In trade, I’ll give you these,” said the Spider reaching into the arriving laundry hamper and removing one of the volleyballs. “Silk. Just boil off the glue, which can also be useful, and the thread is stronger than steal.”

“Oh my,” said Wicky almost giddy. “I could mix this into my latex outfits.”

“Yes, cursed costumes become indestructible with this. They never show signs of wear.”

Francette hid a few steps back behind the spider woman. It was amazing to see how the hands and arms moved so rapidly and independently. The hand on the third arm down on the right side had picked-up the silk ball. The hand of the second arm on the left side had done the pointing. The fourth pair of arms on the bottom just above her human abdomen had gestured out wide with a shoulderless shrug of ‘why not?’ The top hands handled a cell phone calculator app as the two women discussed and calculated how many meters of silk the cart represented.

As a maid, waiting around was boring and in this case the Swedish Exercise Ball was becoming the next intriguing thing to study. Could it feel? Did it have a nervous system? Or was it just a balloon of latex? It seemed to have a bit of mass, but also a bit of bounce against the legs. Was it really a part of this woman’s body? The tip had two protruding tubes. That must be where all the silk was extruded. It was hard for the maid to resist awkwardly looking at such details. She knew servants should never interfere or interrupt, but what was inside the ball? Sometimes she felt invisible and that gave her courage to her own detriment.

“I hope,” continued he Spider, “that you realize that this cart represents a tremendous amount of work.” The bottom forth set of arms reached down between the stocking covered knees to the protruding tubes on the abdomen Swedish ball. “My spinnerets produce only so many meters a day.” Her bottom hands pulled out a couple meters of silk thread.

Francette leaned forward as the witch and spider were busy studying the quality of the silk. The maid pointed a finger at the latex Swedish Ball and, while lost in curiosity, moved ever so slightly closer and with the slightest of pressure touched it.

Instantly, she found herself pressed against the library’s built-in bookshelves with the Spider breathing down her face holding a silk thread across her throat.

“No one touches me,” said the Spider.

“Francette! Widow! Everyone just stop!” said Wicky.

“Pardon, mistress,” pleaded Francette. “Accident, no?”

The Spider turned to address the witch. “Do we have a deal Wicky?”

Wicky trotted over and tried to take an arm of the spider woman like she was on a prom date. She found herself wrapping the spider woman’s first, second and fourth left side arms at their elbows leaving the third awkwardly reaching to the other side. She diplomatically ignored that odd arm out and just went with smoothing things over as she led the two walking out of the library.

“On All-Hallows’ Eve,” said Wicky ignoring what just happened, “be here before sunset and I’ll guarantee a perfect place for you to set-up.”

“Perfect,” said the spider taking a look back at Francette. “If she were still human, I’d insist it be her. I think she fancies Black Widows.” She pursed her lips into a kiss.

Wicky shook her head. “We both know you want someone who’ll scream her little lungs out. Francette wouldn’t be scared enough. She’s seen too much for that, but apparently not enough just yet.” The witch flashed a disappointed look at the maid. “She’s learning though.”

The spider woman smiled and shrugged her shoulders and the three sets of arms below. “You’re right. I’d love a college student if you don’t mind. They live such sheltered lives. Their screaming and that cute look of total terror just makes them taste that much better – but only when I’m hungry of course.”

“Of course, but let’s be clear. You can’t be eating humans on All Hallow’s Eve. There just won’t be enough to go around as it is.”

The two reached the front door arm in ‘arms.’ The spider gave Wicky a hug four times over all at once with all her extra limbs. “It’s done then. See you in a few days.”

When the vault-like oak front door closed, Wicky spun around in place.

“Francette!” yelled Wicky.

The head maid ran out into the hallway, looked down submissively and curtsied. “Oui? I am so the sorry.”

“Bend over the table.”

Francette looked around and saw a center table with a huge flower vase. She looked back at Wicky, who only raised her eyebrows waiting. With a look of trepidation, the maid pushed the vase to the side and reached across the table laying her torso along the top. It had been a while since she had been punished like this. The feeling of quills dug deep into her skin even where there was no costume. She knew she deserved it and maybe her guilt triggered the quills to start now, but she also remembered what the spider said, ‘if she were human.’ So despite what Wicky had promised, she really was cursed like the rest of the staff. Maybe she would be allowed to leave, but the nose ring was permanent and the feathers would always punish her. She wasn’t human after all – so it seemed.

Wicky lifted the fluffy layers of feathered petticoats and ran her hand across the ruffles. The uplifted skirts looked like a feathered pillow had been cut open. “I know you’ve been alone with no one to talk to. Blood slaves never get to meet people and vampires don’t talk much. I understand being a little childish and curious, but I do have to punish you even more than your costume will.”

“Oui, Mistress. I was bad. No?”

“Yes. Very bad.” Wicky pulled the maid’s panties down to the stocking tops and caressed the bare cheeks. For Francette, the wait was the worse part until she experienced the harshness of the first smack. Somehow, Wicky had a textured wood paddle. The second smack was increasingly worse. So was the third and the forth and the fifth. The paddle felt like it had hundreds of rough points.

“Ahh!” screamed Francette with the sixth spank. She tried to stand, but the witch pushed her down with one hand. The maid felt her boobs pressing hard against the tabletop. A moment of waiting passed. She looked to the witch and saw the paddle with a grid of tiny wooden pyramids. Something was being squirted onto the tiny points.

The witch shrugged her shoulders. “Sorry Francette, I have to punish you. It’s too late to demote you. I wouldn’t find a replacement in time and let’s face it, the three other maids are no where near ready. This solution will make it hard for you to sit until I give you something to sooth it – and trust me, that’s not happening anytime soon.”

“But, but I’m done after this week, no?” said Francette then switching to her American accent, “Please. I did my year.” It was probably not the best time to have brought the subject up. She felt like she was on a roll with the mistakes.

“Yes, I’ll let you go if you want. But you’ll be stuck like this. You could stay and in a few decades when the house moves to where the moon is just right, you can have a chance to be human again.”

“Please mistress no.” Francette didn’t even attempt her fake French accent.

“No pleading.”

Francette felt her wrists pulled across the table. It was Forte helping out now. The bitch probably enjoyed this. The maid’s scream echoed through the house as a fast series of paddling started with a strong chemical burning sensation over her bottom’s skin. But was Wicky done? Forte was still holding down her wrists. The maid looked around. It was hard to see. The spanking had loosened her hairpins and the teased locks were falling down along with the lacy bonnet.

That was when something fell to the floor: the candle that was hidden in the panties.

“You’re smuggling candles?” asked Wicky.

“Some rooms are dark, no?”

Forte let go of the maid’s wrists, walked the table perimeter to Wicky, kneeled down and retrieved the candle.

“Well,” said Wicky, “let’s put it in a safe place, shall we?”

Forte sputtered a laugh and returned to hold Francette’s wrists down again.

Francette moaned as she felt the candle push into her anus until only a bit protruded, but a bit too much for another paddling.

Slap. Francette screamed. The stinging lotion was intensifying now.

Slap. Her bottom was on fire as Wicky rubbed the paddle around and then pulled away. The maid cringed her eyes hard, but the next hit didn’t come. Was she done?

Slap. It was the hardest hit yet and came just when the skin was the most sensitive. The quills had stopped their stabbing. It seemed that they were too busy enjoying the punishment.

“All done,” said Wicky, “Fix your uniform.”

Francette sighed. She was afraid to move.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

“Ahh!” She felt the vibration flow through body. Her muscles had stopped tensing-up just before these lasts paddling’s. She didn’t expect them.

“Now you’re done. Hurry-up.”

Francette pushed herself off the table quickly to avoid receiving more. As she stood, layer after layer of fluffy skirts slid down over her butt cheeks sending a feeling of burning pain worse than any sunburn.

Francette knew she had to say something submissive. What she had to say next without any signs of anger was more difficult than pulling the satin panties over her burning skin. Even the satin felt like barbed wire.

“Thank you mistress,” said the maid with a forced smile and a curtsy – a movement that hurt along with the humiliation and the physical strain.

“You’re most welcome,” said Wicky. “Now get your staff inline and make certain we don’t have any more problems.”

Snuggles liked it rough and added a bit more struggle into her movement prompting the male pinning her down to the attic floor to grip tighter on her neck with his teeth. He had mounted her firmly and strongly from behind and kept her shoulders pressed down in front as she fought, though willingly pushed her hips up higher to grant him easier access. She liked a guy that would just ruthlessly nail her. No emotional questions on how she felt or what she wanted in life; just animalistic action resulting in good hard sex—and then as quickly and as casually as it started, it was over in twenty-one, maybe twenty-two, seconds.

The male cat ran off into a corner of the dark attic space probably finding a hole in the roof somewhere to escape to his next conquest of food or sex. He left her all alone, just as he should, so she could revel in the after effects.

Snuggle’s feline body with its shiny black fur coat rolled around in a pile of loose papers. Spending some alone me-ow-time thrashing about was how female cats celebrated their moments of bliss. She enjoyed it – enjoyed it too much in fact. She lost her concentration on holding herself in a feline body and began transforming back to her human form – a woman trapped in latex.

She thought of the stray cat again. He was good. He could use a bath though. Such was cat life. She stretched her human arms and legs out across the dusty attic.

A deep breath filled her lungs. It was impossible to figure out where the air came from since her mouth and nose were sealed shut in a latex hood. She exhaled. Where that air went was a mystery too. It all just worked when she breathed.

She rolled around some more hopelessly clinging to the last bits of glow. Oh how cat sex was good.

She stretched and looked at the ceiling, her long lashes fluttering a few times. She wished it was easier for her to stay a cat. She had to always concentrate so hard and that interfered with the sex act and the enjoyment. She rubbed her crotch, but her suit never allowed any human satisfaction. Feline sex was her only outlet.

Floating dust particles glowed overhead dancing in the morning rays of sunlight shooting across from a circular attic window. She realized that she should hurry downstairs. Wicky probably needed to look-up a spell or do some other nonsense. As the catgirl procrastinated and rolled over in the papers, she saw pages torn from some old Vampires Almanacs. One page moved towards her like it was being pushed at her.

The house wanted her to see something. She slapped a hand on it and looked. It was a full-sized add from 1879: “Quench Your Primal Thirst: Personal Easy to Control Blood Slaves – All fed with herbs to cure all ailments and mood.” It was like an old medicinal Coca-Cola ad of the times, but geared towards vampires with their quirky problems. There was so much quackery back then.

In a pen and ink drawing style, there was a picture of woman wrapped tightly in a hobble fetish dress like the one Wicky was stuck wearing under her witch gown. The only addition was that the arms were bound in the back and a gag was pushed into the illustrated woman’s mouth—so kinky for the era. The woman’s wrapped body even looked like the curves of the old glass Coke bottles. Vampires probably thought nothing more of the women, other than puncturing into a nice warm refreshment. Decades later the same ad showed a submissive woman in a French Maid costume. Wicky was better than her predecessor at figuring out what vampires liked and overly restrained prey was not as fun. French maids could run fast and were phoofy enough to scream a lot.

The memories started to return as Snuggles tried to recall how it felt to wear those hobble fetish dresses that squeezed the legs together and cinched the waist. The corseting laces going from top to bottom in the back took forever for an assistant to tie and untie, but unlike her present outfit, she could actually undress and sexually play – sometimes with that handsome stable boy. All the blood slave girls liked to see him during their feeding visits. He made each one feel unique and special – at least to the girls dumb enough to believe it. Wicky, surprisingly one of the smartest of them all, had fallen hard for him.

It was such a long time ago when Snuggles’ life, as a blood slave, changed that day the stable boy opened the coffin lid and pulled her out of the pine box. She thought it was another monthly feeding and she would be returned, but that day the stable boy removed the gag, freed her arms and started undoing the laces all the way down the dress. She stood there silently as she felt the hard leather shell crack open and her body decompress.

A witch then approached the stables. It was Martha, the original witch of the manor. “I need you for something special. Put this on.”

The witch threw a rubbery suit at Snuggles, who let the tangled mess fall to her feet, not in defiance but from a clueless lack of use of her arms. She wasn’t used to being unbound and free.

“Hurry-up Snuggles,” but that wasn’t the name she used. It was something else; something now impossible to remember.

Snuggles recalled being confused as she crouched down to the pile of rubber examining it. Long sleeves were gloved at the ends. An attached hood looked to small for anyone’s head, so it would have to really stretch. Footed legs would be hard to get into and some kind of long hose hung off the rear. Loose string was routed through a series of grommets and would require an aggravating effort to lace shut. She followed the path of grommets from between the legs and up the front. Kinkiness was always a constant at the manor.

“I’ll be in the spell room waiting,” said the witch.

Snuggles dutifully nodded and began undoing the laces so she could pull the thing on. The stable boy smiled as he stayed to watch. Pervert.

Whatever happened to that stable boy anyway? The idea of something bad having happened to the prick made her roll in the attic papers some more. She had liked him once, but only once. She shunned him after that.

She remembered how the suit took well over an hour to stretch and don. She tightened the laces up the front. What was bothersome, setting the fetishes aside, was that the laces went up the center front of the neck, over the chin and cinched closed over the mouth and nose stopping just below the eyeholes. She left some give in the strings closing the suit around her face so she could breath. It was strange tying a shoelace knot on the tip of her nose. The loops and the working ends of the long laces almost looked like whiskers.

“The mistress is getting impatient,” said the stable boy. He returned to gabbing with Wicky and one other girl. Names were so hard to remember, but she was certain the girls name was Olive. Both girls wore the tight slave dresses minus the arm bindings. Witch Martha appeared to be assembling a staff of assistants for something.

“Mmm,” was all Snuggles could say in response to the stable boy. She had not spoken in so long and her hood, even with the laces left loose, pressed her jaw closed.

She had figured out more of her future role when she realized the hood came with cat ears on top. There were also some accessories like a rigid mask that surrounded the eyes. Finding a little cat collar choker with a silver nametag: “Snuggles” confirmed everything. That was the first time she saw that name. She stood and realized the long limp tube was supposed to be a tail and she was about to become some kind of fetish creature. She may not even be human pretty soon, but such was her mistress’s wish. She wrapped the thin collar strap around her neck. She knew it was accessories like this one that typically finalized a possessed costume setting its curse into motion.

As expected, the snap of the collar did it. The suit came to life. Despite the effort she had put into tightening the laces from her crotch to her nose, the energized outfit had it’s own idea of what defined tightly laced. Her mouth and nose became sealed in as the laces drew themselves closed. She struggled to breath fighting the suit and looking around for help.

Wicky, Olive and the stable boy just stood there saying something inaudible. In fact, Wicky seemed to be signaling that the others should hold back and let things run their course. Bitch!

There was no air. Help!

Snuggles tugged at the laces zigzagging vertically up her face, but her gloved hands couldn’t grip anything. Everything was going dark. She felt lightheaded. Was there a tool anywhere? She needed a knife or some scissors. She fell to her knees and searched the hay-covered ground. It became harder to think. It seemed like her feeling around for something sharp only led her to someone’s feet. The shoes were large, probably the stable boy’s. No one helped as she passed out.

And then she breathed. Her tail wagged slapping the ground several times. She sat up and took in a deeper breath and exhaled. She was still alive.

The stable boy pulled Snuggles up, of course making certain to feel her up on almost every curve.

“Mistress Martha is waiting for you in the spell room,” said Wicky.

“You should ask if she’s alright first,” said Olive.

Wicky pushed Snuggles along sending her out of the stables.

In a state of shock, Snuggles walked to the manor, her new tail curled up to her shoulders and then lowered itself vaguely under her control. As she approached a set of cellar doors, now long gone, hidden under an addition made later to the manor; she stopped at a water bucket to look at her reflection. Her eyes were surrounded in black making the contrasting whites of her eyes peer strongly from her hooded face. Her nose and mouth were cinched in by a vertical white stitching that the laces must have transformed into. The white thread was tightly woven into the rubber it was like stitch work on a baseball. She followed the white thread down her neck, between her breasts and down to her crotch. This suit wasn’t coming off easy if ever.

Her eyes blinked. She didn’t cry or feel sad. This is what her mistress wanted. The only thought she had was about how strange she didn’t have vertical slit cat eyes. She concluded that such a change would have made her a hybrid costume curse and furry animal curse. Right now she was a purebred costumed girl.

“Come child,” said Martha peering up from the cellar doors.

It was more of a summons than an invitation. No one ever asked at the manor. There was no option to a request.

Snuggles knew Martha had more plans for her. She dreaded finding out what they were as she headed down the steps going deep below the manor to what was now the old spell room.

Pinocchia entered the living room of the haunted manor through a secret passage inside a Citizen Kane Xanadu sized fireplace. She felt her long hot dog shape nose and wished she could keep her mouth shut so it wouldn’t grow. Sarcasm was her worst enemy. ‘Yeah, sure lady, you’ll be fine after this,’ was her last mistaken statement made to one of Wicky’s future victims.

To get rid of the nose, she was going to need a good bout of sex to return it back to normal. But who? Wicky was a ‘no.’ Snuggles was hard to find. Forte was a ‘hell no.’ As for the maids, surely Wicky would have released them from the closet by now. It had been too busy a day to check who actually was on staff at this point. If she could find the silly blonde maids, they would certainly be obedient and do the deed. Where would they be?

Of course, why get anyone? Maybe masturbation was an option. She smiled. It would be short and simple if it worked. She could lie, do herself, and lie some more.

She hid herself in a coat closet, plunged a hand down the front of her short shorts and closed her eyes to fantasize. She thought of Wicky crossing the field in her tight gown, then switched to Snuggles with the latex cat costume.

“Come-on. Focus. Concentrate.” she said leaning among a bunch of old fur coats with her heels pressed against the baseboard of the opposite closet wall. That was when Forte came to mind. It wasn’t an image that should have stuck, but somehow Forte giving her longhaired ponytail a wiggle was getting things going. Within a minute, Pinocchia gasped in orgasm. She felt her extended nose. It wasn’t shrinking.

“Nothing? Come-on! Not even an inch?” A simple hand job just wasn’t going to fix it. The last sex that worked was the nose dildo job on Wicky. So why not use the nose on herself? She would need to get her nickers off. Up till now, her costume kept itself glued to her body. She tugged at the suspenders surprised that they popped off her shoulders. She peeled her shorts down. It was clear her costume liked the idea of what she was about to do. She pulled some fur coats from their hangers and layered them on the floor for bedding. Getting comfortable on the mink pile, she hoisted her legs over her chest to place the tips of her toes down on the floor by her head. She struggled to reach the goal between her legs. She had to tuck her chin down to point her nose at the target.

Breathing was hard as she tried again to achieve her best stomach crunch, lift her face between her thighs, and curl her spine enough to insert her long nose into her holy of holies. She used her hands to lift her butt higher putting more weight on her shoulders. Grunting a few times, she saw that she was almost there: the nub on her face almost touching the nub between at her crotch. Contact was just an inch away.

“I’m a lollipop,” she said intentionally lying to extend her nose just a bit more. It grew in response and slid right across her clitoris. The feeling was overwhelming. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad curse. With practice, maybe she could actually give herself a vaginal orgasm whenever she needed one. Right now she’d be happy inducing an orgasm from the outside.

It was clear she could do this and now it was time to begin sexually assaulting herself. The thought of Forte wasn’t working anymore, so a thought of a female vampire in a magician outfit came to mind. Somehow this was a real memory and not just imagination. ‘Vamps’ was the woman’s name. But where did this memory and all these details come from? Regardless the image was working. The silly top hat, the long legs – the puppet masturbator found a happy rhythm.

The tip of her nose slid back and forth across the perfect spot. Her hands pushed harder against her buttocks till the tops of her feet rested flat along the floor and her head was squeezed between her inner thighs. She knew she had reached the level of yoga goddess when she felt the round tip of her long nose penetrate. She was happily fucking herself now and rushing towards a solitary woman’s bliss. She blew out and tucked her head in her lap again and went at it even harder. Why couldn’t the human body have been built to do this easier? Masturbation would be such a glorious experience if –

“Mmmmm, yes!” she screamed in the closet. It was a struggle to push her nose in deeper, but she did and enjoyed feeling her vagina walls pulse and squeeze her nose. When she couldn’t bear to hold the pose anymore, she let go of the continuing orgasm and dropped to her side. It was a relief to straighten her back and flop across the pile of furs.

“Damn it!” came the muffled yell from under more falling coats covering her head.

Despite the wonderful orgasm, her nose did not change.