The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“We want a tally of names for these un-American prudes, a list of all the best respected and prominent punk rock girls in town — every single one of ’em!” Jane peeked into the room, trying her best not to breathe, or make any small sound, at all.

She had to manually slam her droopy jaw shut, once she could remember… something. Oh yeah. Just because she wasn’t breathing through her nose, that didn’t all of a sudden make it okay to just mindlessly hoover in the stale heady air, with her dumb mouth, now, did it? Too late, but okay.

She wasn’t about to take any more chances, not with the crazy kind of night she was having. “And really, folks, we really oughtta be forthright, ohhh-kay, and carry our providence like a dang feather, okay? Not a yoke. It feels good to be called to service, don’t it! Yeh-huh, it’s a relief to save sinful souls, ain’t it the truth! Yes it is.”

Jane was horrified to notice she’d nodded along quite thoughtlessly. Dumb. Shit! Well, let’s see. Let’s think this over for a second. Saving souls could also be feminist and punk rock, right? Why not?

Fuschia studded belts, maybe?… maybe even nursing bras with anarchy symbols… Wow. Hot. Why was that hot?

She wouldn’t notice for another minute or two that the thought made her begin to idly rub and tug and stroke messy circles around her cartoonish, bovine new nipples. She pampered them through the ribbed fabric of her new, hot pink and baby blue American flag tank.

It would take her most of the first hour of her show, though, to fully realize that syrupy, lavender hued and scented milk should definitely not be oozing from those long, almost laughably engorged things.

“Can we all agree? We mean bidness. You, your friends and family, your trusted real American Christian politicians, and me, yep! — that’s right — even your boy Dominant Cornshield!” Huh? What kind of weed was DJ Greedy Dom smoking, anyhow?

This just had to be some kind of self-reflexive meta irony bullshit, or... something. Hang on. There was a word, right? Or a… phrase... a… term? — was that the right word? — for the thing she was thinking about… with the, the... stuff he was sayin’… what...

...sad tire iron, or… sat on a log, no… long-big-hard-awesome—

She shook her head. Well! Whatever. She just didn’t think it was, like, funny stuff, okay? That should have been enough. She should have been able to reason taking such a stance. She immediately stopped shaking her head when the new plastic yellow hoops, the ones she’d been gifted by one of her bandmates, tinkled below her ears.

It seemed like much too much work. Thinking critically, like, at all, was proving exceedingly difficult for her, for some reason, pretty much all day. Concepts and ideas that used to come so swiftly, as close as yesterday, had been plum eluding her for much of today… that is, if they didn’t just dwindle into total black holes.

Big concepts and ideas such as the patriarchy, and sure, yes — satire. But even things like why, or how, it was perfectly fine to not simply toss automatic smiles out at (or try to somehow, and very embarrassingly charm and win over) every man she encountered.

Or that, y’know, that she should maybe leave the house with her underpants on. She whinnied and burped right there behind the cracked door, remembering for a seventh or eighth time that she needed to buy some new ones.

“A lot of the feminazis we’ve already done turned into thick hick sluts have been transformerin’ so rapid-like, they can’t help but show off them charms between their legs there. But no matter what, we should always ask every girl we see without an upper lip re-birthmark, we oughtta axe ’em why they just jim dandy ’bout goin’ to hell.” Was he talking about her? Could he possibly be?

Jane twisted her tight stonewashed denim mini around the fluffy hips she’d been growing over the past week or two. It was only a matter of days, she reckoned, before calling them “pudgy” would seem undeniable, obvious, self-evident.

She couldn’t seem to fucking get the skirt to ever cover all of her ass lately. She was probably being so obvious. She struggled, again, to remember whether or not it was a bad thing for a riot grrl like her to concede bimbo defeat, and if so: why?

Looking in the mirror that morning, she saw a double chin for the first time. It had announced its evidently welcome presence. She saw those modest and unassuming new dimples on her buttcheeks (that she’d only first noticed the night before) had already spread into blossoming cellulite, with varying degrees of tautness.

Jane just, all of a sudden, occupied the body of a girl who seemed to always look like she was genetically predisposed to getting fat. She felt fertile with every breath, every step, every jiggle. It would have been really freaky if it hadn’t been for the pussy popping tingles and yummy wet awesome happening between her thighs.

Her body didn’t look stereotypically vegan at all anymore. The fertile fat piling onto her lower body equipped her with a plush slab of rippling booty meat, that all but assured she’d feel girly and silly and like a dumb piece of ass from now on, or however long, and everyone would probably want to treat her like one, but maybe this, too, was okay?

Her big new butt forced her to walk around all day in ways that she hadn’t once walked in any of her more than twenty years. Luscious, juicy and endorphin pumping struts. Mincing moves giving way to suggestive sashays. It was sexy and fun to hear the fabric of her skirt start to creak, just by virtue of the plump rump ensnared beneath.

“Y’know ladies, and master-men, it’s not out of the ordinary lately, that we can hear a lot of new thickies insist that bubble butts are, oh, just fine, that they shouldn’t be eatin’ no more church food on account of how big they asses already done got. Stupid. Uh-uh, guys. Unacceptable. Why ain’t it illegal in America yet, for a girl to walk around with anything less than a traffic-stoppin’ donk?“

Well. Jane needed to buy some new panties anyway, because the non-busted-apart ones she still had, by this point, had all started to fray at the waistband. The day was already over, pretty much, so she could probably totes go commando until she got back to her apartment.

It was kind of, well, extremely fuckin’ crazy to be getting so very curvy, so very quickly, but it was also kinda funny in this weird but innocent way, and… kinda super duper hot to get all manner of extra attention from guys, not to mention catty looks of mega jealousy, from certain trifling bitches in the city’s crust punk scene.

Another burp. This one sounded even more like an unladylike farm animal. That stupid drooling almost started again, even. Speaking of crusts, Preppabelli’s Pizza always went straight to her perfectly rounded little trainee gut, gave her such insurmountable gas and heartburn.

Some of the pink in her eyes subsided. Huh? Always went to her gut? The pot belly she’d only had for a day or so? No. Today was the first day she even stepped foot in that place. It always seemed super sexist, even before Our Family Way bought up all the franchises. That silly mascot, with her big veiny jugs and cow ears...

Still, she only had the rest of the month to use the nice and helpful coupons Papa Daddy stuffed into her tits as he smacked her new ass goodbye. She planned on using every single one.

Come on! Free breadsticks with every two daily calzones? A no-brainer! Hold up. She still had a brain, right? Even though she was a girl? She burped again, out of control.

Dom totally heard her piggy ass now, and, looking over his shoulder, winked at her. “Fuck!” she scream-whispered. “Okay!” he mouthed back, winking again. That did it. Oh gosh.

He was doing that… that thing, she considered, forgetting the word “wink,” where he communicated his superiority with his eyelids alone, and it was, like... wrong, right? Of course, or something, and she shouldn’t get yummy pussy twinges out of it because… Something!

“We’ve only got about ten minutes left for our evening’s radio crusades, before Plain Jane McCaughey and her gross, shapeless body get on the man’s mic to tell us all about why electing her mommy majesty, Senator Baby Pink, spells imminent doom for our nation. I’m sure it won’t be full of lies, communist propaganda, and shrill masculine tones.”

He rolled his eyes at Jane. She shot him dull daggers, descending into a blushing pout, ground her teeth and fought to pull her sticky, squishy, repeatedly thickening new thighs together. It was not the least bit possible.

Even though she lost her thigh gap at some point over the last week, they kept inching apart, however unsuccessfully, when she was feet away from any frazzled or vaguely hot guy. Wasn’t her DJ name Vain Jane?

There was nothing plain about whopping cow teats and a pair of lips that wanted more and more to stay open, inviting. This was… this was whatever the opposite of cool was. Hot? Well, it was hot, FOR SURE, but…

Just because a radio host had his long, veiny red cock out in the open, and its musky animal essence filled the room the second some precum entered the mind-popping picture, that didn’t mean she was just going to giggle, give in, and be a good little girl and get on her pretty little knees!

Right? Right. WHY, though? Dang it all to heck, it was getting SO annoying! Cocks were so fucking cool, and the big ones felt amazing in her pussy. The loaded, depraved pressure was so thoughtful and comforting when they fucked her face and throat, too.

Besides, cocks made you pregnant. Which, Jane and every other Christian girl around knew, was what being a woman in the United States was all about. Why wasn’t she preg yet!

Except... she wasn’t Christian. She didn’t believe in… what was it, exactly, that she didn’t believe in? Wasn’t Jesus the guy in heaven, or whatever, that made her boobies real big and her lips fatten up, so that she could better suck and titty-fuck big cocks?

Still, though. She wasn’t going to get to suck some cock, for once in her fucking life. Even if it had been a half hour since her last BJ. No way. Not with all the heinous things happening all across America.

Innocent young women mutating into fleshy, jizz-lapping manifestations of their raging new libidos. It was bad for women, and bad for America. Because girls were inferior in every way to boys. Boys are the bestest, Jane mused.

“Ass like the one she showin’ off here tonight, I wonder if she’ll still cop to being a lesbo before my show is through!” She gazed adoringly at his big red pecker. Definitely not going to defend myself, it’s not the right time and certainly not the right place, she thought, feeling smart.

Not when she’d been sprayed in the face with that brand new, 48-hour MeltyMind OTC mist that’d been making headlines, by some dickheaded bro downtown an hour or so earlier. She’d finally been able to stop drooling thick pink gunk about halfway through her walk to the station.

The persistent hot pink and baby blue fog at the corner of her eyes was just getting bigger and brighter, though, now covering most of her field of vision.

What was the joke Greedy Dominant radio-man made earlier, again? Was there a joke, or…? What was it! If it was a joke, why was she kinda… terrified? GOD! she thought, painstakingly uncorking a wedgie that ate all the way straight up into her tubby, new, electric-pink pussy lips.

Jane needed, desperate, to lovingly, dedicatedly fuck someth—

No. Uh-uh, she chided herself. Jane needed to just take a deep fucking breath, maybe crack open that newfangled, free promo Pink Cow energy drink in her new, pink and lime, zebra print Angelwear clutch purse, and Just. Get. Through her radio show. She could do this.

“We, and that’s all of us in the city, we MUST take ’em down, take all of them no-perfume-wearin’, skinny-sinny feminist bitches down, like… uh-what wazzat, caller? Don’t think I ain’t heard ya! Say it with me now!”

“One by one by ONE!” Jane scanned the control board. The phone lines were all lit up. Greedy Danny’s slot never had a call-in component, had it? “One by one one. You know, folks—I’m serious. Dead-ass. Every single fuckin’ one of ’em! Really, y’know, it’s our patriotic duty, really, to make ’em all over into huuuuge freakin’ bimbos, folks, okay?”

Um. What was happening? She’d gone to Occupy rallies with this kid, organized at least a half a dozen Food Not Bombs events, protested outside of beauty pageants. This new right-wing attitude didn’t gel with any of that activism one bit.

Sure, she had clearly humungous, heavy new titties, and a doubly big and fat bubble booty now. But just because she was way sexy and obviously needy for his massive hardon didn’t make it acceptable for him to change his mind, about any of that boring-ass, super pretentious smart-people stuff!!

“We’ll be back for station identification and signoff, just after this brand new banger from the Hott Rockerin Struttz. I can’t get enough of ‘Bra Bustin’ Barnstorm.’ I think it’s one of the most beautiful songs in the history of all music. Don’t you?”

The scene in the city was getting kind of dire, and everybody knew it. Everybody with some sense, and everybody that wasn’t DJ Greedy Dom, evidently, was fighting the new pink fascism with protests, punk bands, or photocopied zines. Up until two weeks ago, anyway.

It seemed like the scene was just becoming lazy in the face of politicians like Baby Pink. There was no easy alternative explanation for it. It seemed like punk rock freedom fighters were lining up to support her, as if the irony of making such statements had coagulated into a defensive and honestly met resignation.

Jane had read about the powerful, repetitive linguistics of indoctrination employed by Man Plan during this year’s election cycle. How buzzwords and catch phrases wormed their way into unsuspecting brains, burrowing there until making them sufficiently pink, and pleasantly soft.

But she wasn’t able to make any of what she learned stick, wasn’t able to make any of it actionable. She was so close! She made half an outline the other morning, for a monologue to go at the top of the second hour. But… poof!

By the time she sucked her very first cock in her life on Tuesday (a thing that happened in her face before she could even kiss a man for the first time), it was all gone. She’d picked herself up off scraped knees, and struggled to read the college ruled sheet at her mary janes.

What did “intersectionality” mean? Like… half intercourse, half titty? Something like that?

So she just brought her weirdest looking and boringly political vinyl to the studio. A lot of the names were hard to read. Of course they were. She was forgetting how to read in general. She almost started crying when she realized that none of the record jackets had big babes or yummy penises on them.

“Ummmm,” she mewed to DJ Man. “Like, I’m… um.”

She picked up her natty canvas bag of records and walked right up to Mr. Dominant, or whatever his name was. She almost fell over.

Eight pounds suddenly felt like eight hundred. The muscles in much of her back and arms had gone slack, to better accommodate superhuman vadge and mouth reflex, and of course that insouciant, donkey butt gait.

It was hard to move her mouth so that any puff of English could fall out of it, but eventually she slurped up enough dollops of spit to approximate a word or two. “I’m sorry,” she demurred, apologizing for nothing except being a dumb bimbo.

What was his name? Master Babe Dominate-me? The first Hott Rockerin Struttz song to make it to the Top 40 thumped its way along in the background. Jane tripped a tiny bit and fell straight to her knees in a primal rite of submission. It felt prehistoric.

She cupped hunky dude’s big leathery balls. “Um, mister sir? I think you bein’ real mean and junk on these here radio airwaves, tha umm… th’ microwaves. I want some butter on my popcorn too, y’know!” He beamed at her display of idiocy before she broke off eye contact, looking enthralled.

“I bet Greg from Psilocybin Mousepad first crack at those puffy new lips of yours, that you’d be too far gone to even make it in to the station tonight, that last week was going to be your last show. But I don’t care. I’m Greedy Dom, after all. Me Dom, you Jiggle-Janey. You’d better swallow, too.”

Jiggle-Janey probably wouldn’t give a shit about any of that stuff if she could even hear him. She was too busy giving her loudest, wettest blowjob yet, and couldn’t make out much of anything apart from that, or the growing volume of her own moans.