The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Colleen flipped through the leaflet, carefully making sure not to get any of her roommate’s gross, experimental Maple Onion Cashew flavor of Cherub Chow anywhere near her fingers. “’So You’re a Cyborg-American Now’… Hmm…”

What was this, some shoddy lefty scare communique? It didn’t seem like her roommate to bring something like that home. Well, it did fit Tai. But Tai hadn’t gone by that name for weeks, and Colleen certainly hadn’t been aligning with “Soozi” politically, for even longer...

Chapter 1: Mommy Myths. Myth no. 1: Just because you’re part machine doesn’t mean you always have to fuck like one. Sure, you may run on a hard drive, but you’ll always be sexy, soft and alive!

“No! Uh-uh! I can not believe this! You promised me!” Colleen raged. There were rumors of Man Plan dabbling in robotics, but they were hard to believe, to say the very least.

Myth no. 2: Yes, you can still win first prize at the Tuscaloosa Twerk-Off. As long as you recharge every two hours, you won’t overclock that booty. Don’t let boring skinny sinnies tell you what you don’t got. Y’all are God’s big chosen Bimbo Bots!

“I had no choices, Collie! My phone kept on a-fuckin’ up, an’ I ain’t had the right kinda trackin’ app or whatever, so ever’ time I got a text from an out of state number or told a man ’no’ or what-have-you, I got to feelin’ like knives was stabbin’ me all up an’ down my body, that dang ’lectric shock! So FamTek offered to pay for the first six years of the contract on my spankin’ new pinkphone! Ain’t it the best? No more shocky-wocks!”

“Shit, maybe I should spank you,” Colleen said coldly. Her anger and helpless frustration muted the landing of her unintended double entendre. “Don’t look at me like that, you perv! Oh, I forgot, you’re a big dumb bimbo now. Forget I even said the word ‘spanking.’ …..Come on. Pull those slutty shorts up, jesus!”

“Jesus is here? Omigosh, like… Where!” Soozi made the church country version of the sign of the cross (essentially the regular sign of the cross, with three additional booty bounces, to emphasize fertility) and began reciting the Our Family Father. Colleen did her best to stop mouthing along with the prayer.

Wait a minute. Why do I know this? Oh, right. The whole family was learning it on the two-hour season premiere of the Kardashians.

Myth no. 3: It’s true. You gonna live forever, baby! What will YOU name your first thousand babies? She scanned a few pages down to an infographic labelled FACT OR FICTION. “Oh my fucking GOD. Tai. What is WRONG with you! They removed a SIXTH of your fucking BRAIN!”

Colleen’s attention lingered on a dramatic illustration of an infant’s bedroom. At the center was a cross-section of a red, white and blue brain, hovering in the middle of the unlit room, put there as if it was a soothing mobile. About a third of the all-American brain was filled with doo-dads and circuitry. “Stop yellin’ at me, ya dang egg envyin’ beeyotch!” The brain blueprint glowed, gold and pink, floating as it did above a baby blue crib. Colleen always dismissed the gossip about Operation: Bible Bot, continually forced it out of her head, positive it was some lame fabrication by a pro-Russell super-PAC.

Her head started to spin as her now 100% transformed, wholly unrecognizable roommate prattled on with more of her nonsensical excuses. “I only done showed dat newspaper-y thingie to yew cuz I, um… I cain’t readin’ too good no more, an’ such. I guess what I really wanna know is, like, if it’s the truths: do Senator Baby got any chance ’soever to pass the Triple D act?”

Soozie pointed at the leaflet, smearing a bunch of slut munch on the header that explained whatever the fuck she was talking about. The 3 D’s were for Dairy Dozen Dream. There was a signed portrait of Mrs. Pink, from the neck down, sandwiched between blocks of text in the first column.

The southern politician’s tits were huge, veiny, and leaking so much milk. Her face was apparently irrelevant. Everything connoted an ominous vibe of inevitability. She’d gotten away with going topless for the past two debates, and the FCC hadn’t so much as sneezed. She didn’t even need to be elected, not really. America was already changed forever.

“So classy and presidential,” Colleen said under her breath. She made sure to read the section thoroughly. Bimbo Tai could probably occupy herself for a little while.

At this moment, the ex-botanist was pushing her fingers into her foil bag of estrogen mud, pressing the stuff rhythmically, lost in a fog of lazy dopey love, like she was working a pussy over. She took long pulls, licking dollops of it off each brown smothered digit, once she satisfied herself by getting them good and messy, smacking her dumb fat lips as she gobbled down her eighth or ninth beauty snack of the day.

We will fight for the reproductive rights of every decent Christian woman in America. It’s time Our Family Way ends the hateful scourge known as feminism once and for all. We know you can do it with us. That’s why we’re prepared to offer a full year of leave from your new job as professional baby-maker for life in Christ. It’s so simple, even a silly little slut like you can follow! Provide our herd with twelve healthy children. Promise to convert twelve or more women to the church along the way. That’s it! Your well-earrned, year-long vacation will be yours, and yours alone. Don’t let anyone take it from you! Who knows? God knows, and Our Family Way knows you even better than Him. Maybe you’ll be married and your hubby can let you plan a relaxing getaway overseas. Remember: Island Interception missionary discounts are always available! Maybe you’re playing the field to find and settle down with the hot hung master of your dreams. All you have to do is eat your six daily Cherub Creams, and make sure to wear yesterday’s jeans. You know — the ones that burst at the seams! You can make him drop his skinny old bitch like a played-out habit. Bend that butt over and demand that he grab it. Just like that, you’re opening God’s door! All marriage long he’ll beg you and your girlfriends for more! Be the best little productive whores. Maybe that’s all you are. You’ll still go totally far! Be family planning counselors during vacation, and all of you can win your very own car! Find a righteous dicked man to drive it for you. Not one of you bimbos will remember how. Y’all can still milk his dick like a superstar cow. You’re all in Our Family Way now. All you have to worry about is good old fashioned backseat procreation! So get on out there, gals! Sniff out some big strong pals! Preach the country word of our sainted herd all across this fertile new nation! Don’t read. Don’t think. Just breed. Vote Pink!

So. At least an entire decade of sexual slavery for, let’s see… a completely unsatisfying and inadequate “vacation,” made up of only slightly dissimilar flavors of sexual slavery, in exchange for… what was it, again, exactly?

Selling out a rich and important historical tapestry that spanned millennia of no shortage of strong women figures, that’s what. Sure! Everything totally checks out. This was some creepy fucking bullshit.

The movement was a masterstroke in evil sociopolitical finessing, guilting the few remaining independent females by using sneaky, socially deft ways of bullying them to “bimbo up.” It made Colleen sadder and sadder each time, but most of them happily bit right down onto the Man Plan bait.

“I’ll just try these things out for a week,” Colleen’s teenage cousin Krystal had said to her in an IM. “I don’t want to be like those trashy girls at school that drink them necessarily, I just think they have really nice butts and I really really want one! Does that make me dumb?”

Nowadays, all she ate was Cherub products. And cum, of course. Very disheartening, to watch a beloved member of the family (who’d incidentally just been nominated salutatorian prior to her first taste) go from track star dorkus malorkus, to brainless, big-titted school pump.

After six weeks of half-wittingly giving financial support to the fattening devolution of their only daughter, her mom and dad threatened at last to stop fulfilling an increasingly lengthy shopping list for: Cherub Cream, Cherub Crunch, Cherub Chow, Cherub Chocolate Fudge Soda, Cherub Cheese singles, and entire sheets of Cherub Cherry-Berry Kreemy-Kum-Kakes.

“Omigosh, mom’s such a stupid ho! I done seen her geri-mattress ass sneak a couple tubes da other night, and I ain’t playin’, yo — her bra was totally fuckin’ more tighter today. Even if her buttons hadn’t popped off, I could still see her fuckin’, those strappy bra thingies, dig into her stupid mom back. Mom’s so dumb! Whatever, I guess. Long as she don’t try to fuck any my hunky-ass toy boys, nahmean?”

Colleen’s mom called her up an hour or so later, worried, confirming Krystal’s suspicions. So, that was that. She eventually stopped accepting the girl’s video chats altogether, once the girl thought nothing of pulling down her bra on cam, reveling in the reveal of her poppin’ fresh F-cup jugs.

Just two months earlier, Colleen had gone on a hike with the girl. They This “Krystal” was showing off some outrageous nipple studs, and a rather sizable hot pink heart tattoo, with the word “CUM” prominently stamped on the middle.

They used to watch “Elf” together every Christmas. Did this big, insulting and airheaded remake even know what Scrabble was? It was doubtful. It was hard to imagine her lasting more than two or three minutes without abandoning the game to probably text some loser for an impromptu hookup.

Her cousin and her aunt were just gone now, much like Tai, not just “not themselves,” but distorted, expanded and brain deficient bimbo-sluts, who would never again know the meaning of the word “family” ...unless it involved their new members of more “Christian” families, growing in their uteruses, or extracting new members for the herd from heavy, eager nutsacks.

“I’m telling you, those bimbo scare stories are all bullshit,” her onetime bandmate Misha had bloviated last winter. At that point, nobody was talking about a proud Man Plan operative running for president.

It was doubly impossible to imagine it being one of their bimbos, admittedly a high functioning one, or that her campaign would change the political landscape so dramatically.

“I just want to go up one little cup size! Carrie’s into the idea of me with tits, so I thought, what the hell. Nothing can be that powerful, or it’d be illegal. i don’t trust the claims coming from either side, frankly.”

A half a year later, the broad, box-shaped dyke’s hips and tits had erupted unapologetically. Her graying and close buzz cut had flared out into three feet of thick fuchsia curls. She forgot how to play guitar. She was five months pregnant and had gotten blissfully engaged. To a man.

The only bad connotations still saddling the pro-life movement were all vestigial now. It was getting more and more difficult for people like Colleen to state their case coherently (most of the infected’s diminished ability to process it notwithstanding).

Irresistible tax incentives… total body makeovers, coupled with a high tendency toward permanent youth… guaranteed free food, clothing, daycare and housing for life (provided you legally changed your name to fit the regs of the Angeliqua Accord)… the most enjoyable sex, yielding the most powerful orgasms a human being could ever hope to have...

And—probably the most appealing promise of Family Way Flu to Colleen, despite her laundry list of misgivings and disbelief that it could even be real: eradication of, and inoculation against, any and all diseases.

It’s what Baby Pink’s campaign was banking on. Universal Babecare, as this unending clean bill of health was popularly known, was responsible for convincing over 80% of new recruits to enlist, just within the preceding year.

And so, if the trade-off for all of those seemingly magical things was dutiful and constant childbearing (which, naturally, was made perfectly painless and free of incident, after the bimbo process), why shouldn’t a woman exercise her own free will? Wasn’t that at the very root of feminism? Except...

It really wasn’t free will, it was an insidious yet unknowable blend of coercive hormones. No matter what the FDA said, most normal people were well in favor of installing a system of checks and balances, to regulate a list of ingredients that Man Plan had repeatedly refused to disclose.

All the hearts of Colleen’s converted loved ones were in the right place though, because, in theory at least, the world ought to accommodate for a little benefit of the doubt once in a while, room for a little innocence.

But there was little room for any of that shit anymore. Not when nerve tissue on average clits and tits was getting so amplified, and to such absurd degrees, that critical thinking was simply less and less workable in the wake of these transformations.

That the corporations making and marketing the beauty snacks had implemented a network of community outreach programs from the get-go certainly called into question the future viability of any kind of innocence. New bimbos were encouraged, if not ordered outright, to act as “mindful missionaries.”

“I don’t think Cherub Cream had anything to do with it,” Misha, now Mimi, had claimed the last time they had coffee. She ignored Colleen’s “you can’t be fucking serious” sneer.

“I just got to thinkin’ on ‘at somethin’ in St. Brittany’ scriptures appeal-y to me. I just needed to find my way to all-American Christ, and I really needed to find some big hot country cock!” A barista within earshot lost his balance and sent a big tray of porcelain espresso cups tumbling to the tile.

So.. what the fuck was it? What! Why were all these women just giving up? Was it inclusivity? Could that be the fundamental appeal? Join a punk rock sewing circle, or take some other DIY workshops, fucking play Second Life, anything...

Nudging the desperate hive mind into believing that becoming half-robotic breeder zombies was a noble — no, blessed pursuit? A paper thin lie of togetherness. That’s all Our Family Way ever was, but now that lie was coming home to bimboize America straight into its own holy perverted truth.

Tai had known this, but back when she identified as Tai. The name was still on half of her bills. Up until recently, they’d been lucky enough to share breakfast with one another most weekdays. That all changed when Tai’s work hours kept getting longer and longer.

It had become a reassuring sort of pastime to make fun of the local paper after Our Family Way had purchased it and its affiliates all up, as it bragged about such propagandistic topics as the health benefits resulting from skyrocketing rates of college pregnancies, a record number of nursing home closures, or the durability and cleanliness of lycra.

She and Tai would get into lengthy discussions about what on earth the future would like, when a population only got younger as it multiplied…

Today, at the same kitchen table, Bimbo Tai was currently retrieving some cum out of her hair, absent.

With all her new tech, she was literally moving on auto-pilot as she did her best to scroll through Mr. Minister, the hookup app for Christians, with her forever snack-filthy fingers. She was caught in an electric pink feedback loop, between the screen on her phone and whatever retinal implant she’d gotten installed.

A chain of bright pastel mist, like a homing beam, directed her to which guys the church thought would be her most compatible mates. Her eyes flashed and mechanically fluttered, in different values of chrome and pink.

Why did they go through all the trouble of filtering these ditzes’ enslavement through a cheeky smartphone app, anyhow? What on earth was the purpose? To maintain the illusion of choice? Bimbo Tai was talking to herself. Colleen never once heard Regular Tai her do that. Then again, this voice sounded nothing like her. It was all helium-thin rasp.

“Ew, no… Eugh, BO-riiing! …oh, yummo, I bet homeboy’s hung like heaven, fo sho… L.O.L., nopers! …you gotta be kiddin’ a bitch… Gag me with a spoon! …mmm, I hope you like a big ol’ butt, you rock star, you… Oh, I likes me some redheads… holy fuck, I’mma definitely be fuckin’ the shit outta this one, yes sir! …him too… and him too… dang, I think I got my next two or three months of cock all set up nah… oh and him’s too, for-real-for-real, what a dream —“

Colleen couldn’t take it anymore. “Oh my fucking god, Tai! I don’t even know… I don’t even know where to begin, to be quite honest. Are you… are you STUPID?! How could you let yourself get LOBOTOMIZED in the first place, then be totally down with replacing whatever these fucking sickos sliced out of you with — with what? What did they put in your skull, huh? A sci-fi satellite operated mind control device that’s like… like, what are you even… UGGH!”

She took a deep breath. “Fuck!” Not thinking, she’d evidently scraped a wayward dab of Cherub Chow from underneath a thumbnail, using her other one. “Oh, fuck!”

Having been so distracted by the final dramatic step of Tai’s metamorphosis, some of the stuff must have rubbed off on her while rifling through that stupid brochure. There was no getting around it. She’d been terribly careless.

Safeguarding against infection was relatively easy to do. She’d had close calls in the past when Cherub product made contact with bare skin, but this was inexcusable. You don’t ever, ever ingest the shit!

Colleen had most assuredly eaten a bit of Maple Onion Cashew from beneath her nail, while biting it out of nervous habit. It took a few extra moments of salty panic to let the reality of this sink in. It tasted pretty good. Kind of earthy...

Not a huge amount, surely, but enough to give her goosebumps, make her dully horny, make her salivate at an already absurd clip, and feel more stoned than if she’d taken three or four hefty bong rips. There was probably some bimbo DNA on the morsel, too.

How could she have done this!? In an instant, she considered the heavy mistake of her hubris, a profound regret at all those months thinking she was above it all… all the planning for this moment that she could have done, but alas, never did.

All the arrangements she’d need to squeeze in over the next couple of weeks, somehow. Automatic bill payments were a must. She’d need to cancel any future appointments with her psychiatrist. It would probably be a wise move to quit her job this early in the game, and to stay with Tai and help her, just get the two of them ahead of everything...

Uninfected friends who weren’t on social media would have to be notified, before her ideologies and senses of purpose were destroyed, then rebuilt and made unrecognizable. And/or she forgot how to spell... She mocked up an email draft in her head.

“Comrades, it’s been real. I hope you keep fighting the good fight, but I won’t be able to any longer. i’m infected. It sucks. I’m going to miss all of you, until I have mammaries for memories. Maybe I’ll look back at my pre-salvation days and see you for the meaningful connections we shared, and not just how disappointing your breastes or penises sizes was.”

This is how it happens, I guess. At least I made it this long. I don’t matter, and I never have, and I was put on this earth to live out my days in futility… This is just a dream, right, this can’t be real, there’s just no way, I’m not ready, I’m not ready to become a big dumb cow, not yet, not yet, no, this cannot be fucking happening, oh, FUCK, what am I going to do…

Blushing, she met eyes with her roommate as she tried to power through the feel of the deep narcotizing fog. Soozi’s eyes were piercing, magnetically pink. Colleen’s brain began to tingle.

She shook her head, smacked the side of her face, rubbed her eyes. “Okay, Tai. Let me try to put this a simpler way, so even you can understand. We’re gonna need to share clothes if we want to beat this thing. And I definitely want to fuck you later tonight, okay?”

“Whut?” Soozi asked, drooling onto her tits with abandon, a slut faucet, sheepish and coy. She tried to suck up some spit sauce, but lost control, and about a tablespoon of it landed on her roommate’s bare foot.

It was an accident, but a happy and auspicious one, and with some quick thinking, she saw a way to make sure Colleen would catch enough of her spit to catch Family Way Flu.

What she did next was such a feat of thinking on her feet, she amazed herself. She avoided certain friendship disaster by knocking over Colleen’s bottle of kombucha exactly at the same time, onto her roommate’s feet.

“What-what?!” Colleen yelled, exasperated, sopping up the mess, oblivious to the fact that salivated bimbo goo was now leeching its way into her skin. Soozi stifled a giggle. Colleen’s voice was already beginning to crack.

Soozi’s nipples got super hard. It was so exciting. It was fucking hot as shit to be such a potent bimbo that she could just drool on a bitch and make her a breeder. Only two other girls at the call center were that infectious.

“What part of ‘you’re a fucking fat slutty idiot’ don’t you understand? Women’s rights?! Really. Come now, ‘Soozi’ cow. You know what, I’m glad the government can’t mandate which flavor of candy panties you buy, yeah, I’m, like, soooo happy for you!“

The bimboized version of her old girlfriend was smirking at her own prank, aggravating Colleen even more. Inside, she’d almost forgotten she was even having a conversation, and after a pleasant detour at the mental image of an assorted multi-pack of edible thongs, she pulled together enough brainpower to be present.

It was tough stuff, especially with all the gadgets and mainframes in her artificial neural net. She eventually fought through the silicon buzz in her new titanium skull. “Look, Collie, I know y’all still sore at me cuz I not voterin’ for Olive Russell woof-woofs no more.”

“Now. Let me stop you right there. That’s another thing! Why in the FUCK do you keep calling me Collie? All the blowjobs and snatch feasts you keep braggin’ about, I can’t be expected to believe it’s that hard to move your gosh dang tongue and add the ding-dong ’n’, okay? And for your informa-nation, the word is, um... autommin’… auto pa…”

Colleen took a closer look at her feet. Her toenails were lacquered in a bright pink and green swirl all of a sudden. She burst into tears before she thought to pinch herself. No, this wasn’t a nightmare. Soozi had drooled on her. No.

America was the real nightmare. Democracy was officially dead, and womanhood would now be irretrievably corporatized, thrust into a futuristic, chattel-riffic stone age for as long as the planet existed...

But all she could say about this was, “Oh, fffuuuuck!” And something solidified a leaden pang of doom in her gut. Besides realizing that the spiral application of watermelon swirl on her toenails was starting to spin.

“C’mon, Collie, don’t git all saddy-wad an’ junk, you knowed this shit right here was inevitabubba. Think on it this-a way: at leaps I spit-tagged yore flat ass on election day. Now you can be prow ta votin’ in the first woe-man prezzy-dent, and not the one that’s a-fixin’ ta force all ’spectin’ cherubs into mother effin’ baby mills! That ‘woman’ oughtta be in jailed!“

Yeah, right. No way would she be voting in the first bimbo-in-chief.

Colleen would now be destined to blow up to fit that usual average of eight to twelve dress sizes. She’d talk in a cartoon hillbilly twang, one that threatened to only get more pronounced the bigger words and concepts she’d try, in vain, to employ.

She would eventually replace her love of New Hollywood era cinema with an obsession for upvoting Whirl Swirl Hick-Hop twerk yoga videos, as well, or one of Channel 38G’s porno cooking shows… She’d have to start watching Cunnilingus Color Guard unironically, too...

She caught herself licking her lips… On and on. It seemed silly, but it really felt like she had a few short hours left on the earth as Colleen Gryckowicz. She’d be damned if her new name was Collie, though. What about Connie? No, Cunnie! Cunnie what, though?

Cunnie Biggleteats! She’d wait to ask Soozi — no, it was Tai! Ugh, so frustrating! And what was she thinking? I don’t need that chubby cunt’s permission! But then she remembered that her roommate’s working knowledge of the official Our Family Way list of bimbo name combinations. This sucks.

Maybe she wouldn’t even go to her polling place. Yeah, why not, she could certainly maintain that one shred of dignity, right? …She could certainly… stop snarfing the remaining half of Tai’s bag of Cherub Chow, what the fuck! When did she even start?

“What the fuck?” she said with her mouth full. The greasy residue of America’s favorite drugged hormone grub wouldn’t leave her the roof of her mouth for several hours, but by that time, it would invariably seep into her salivary gland.

Well, four or five more handfuls wouldn’t make her have to go lingerie shopping today… She belched a savory cloud of girl food, to hopefully make some room to better cram another fistful in her face for some reason.

Wait, why can’t I just wait? This is all happening way too fucking fast!

She stared longingly at her bookcase filled with blu-rays of classic cinema and old studio mementos. At the rate her body was already pumping mega-endorphins out, she’d lose the ability to be patient with any of them. Now, she’d just be the latest of her friends, the last of her friends, actually, to go church country.

“Show me the stupid video, Tai,” she sighed, defeated. Colleen’s phone buzzed. Trent. Great, now he could finally get what she suspected he’d secretly wanted for months. The looming epidemic of Baby Pink zombie voters had fast changed his initial revulsion into craven leering. She pretended to not notice his roving eye, but she did.

“Okay, but on jus’ one conditioner, mmmkay?” Soozi chirped, happy that the tables had turned, relishing that she could be dominant roomie now. Colleen glared at her, flexing her nostrils. How much more of herself would she have to say goodbye to this early, on day fucking one?

“I’m Soozi. Sooooo. Ziiii. Say it.”

Colleen, dazed and wounded, accidentally inhaled a big puff of her roommate’s toasted marshmallow Kleavage Kreme. “Sooooz — NO, I won’t! I ’fuse! Look, sweetheart, y’all made me ketch that there bimbo virus, nah, ain’t that enough fer yew!”

“Say it!” Soozi demanded, her eyes lighting up angrily, her head shaking and humming with electronic jolts. Colleen really, honestly meant to say “Or what?” but she did end up saying it.