The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

My neighbor Victoria Weisse is some sort of trophy wife.

I don’t mean this as a judgment or anything like that. She literally strolled up to me one day and declared herself as such. She was dressed in some sort of incredibly tight-fitting workout garb that left absolutely nothing to the imagination and had been doing yoga in her backyard. When she finished, she caught sight of one of my periodic glances over to her as I tended to my garden and, instead of being shocked or distraught, she smiled widely and stepped over to the area between our two houses.

“Doing yoga, huh?” I said, trying to make the conversation as agreeable as possible.

“Yuh huh. I have to remain limber. I’m a trophy wife, after all!”

And she said it as open and honest as one would say, “It’s a nice day out today.” Like it was nothing to be ashamed of and merely a statement of fact. No baggage, just acceptance.

“You like quizzes?” she asked immediately after.

It seemed like quite the non-sequitur, but her pleasant disposition was infectious and I wasn’t about to interrupt it with unnecessary questions, so I just smiled and nodded.

“I need to get your email,” she continued. “I know this quiz that is surprisingly accurate.”

So, of course, I gave her my email.

Her declaring herself a trophy wife rattled around in my head as I worked the yard. Was I so comfortable with my own self-identity as a stay-at-home mom? It was getting harder to be so with one daughter, Jocelyn, already a sophomore in college and the other one eighteen and reaching the end of her senior year of high school. Once Addy leaves the nest, I’ll have to wholly reexamine how I define myself. I’ve had this conversation a dozen or so times with my husband James and he’s always been great about it. “Whatever’s gonna make you happy” is always his response to the situation. I keep him happy with a tidy house, two relatively well-adjusted daughters, bi-monthly sex (mostly missionary position), and the occasional blowy (special occasions and such). The other part of the bargain is I try to keep myself fit and attractive. I spend about an hour a day doing cardio, so I’m pretty trim. I also keep myself clean and pristine. My one extravagance is my monthly salon appointment to make sure my hair is well-coiffed and my nails (finger and toe) are well-maintained. I know my salon does good work because Victoria’s stepdaughter, Grace, asked where I get my work done and she seems more focused on how she looks than anyone I’ve ever met.

When I finally wash up from the yard work, taking a moment to clear my head from my crisis in image, and find time to sit down in front of my laptop, I find an email from Victoria containing a link to something called WeaverFeed Quiz: Your True Self.

If there’s some algorithm that can get me through this mid-life crisis-like feeling, I’m all for it.

She did say it was surprisingly accurate, after all.

I go ahead and click.

This site reads:

Welcome to WeaverFeed Quiz: Your True Self.

We’ve compiled all forty-two female archetypes and can identify you accurately based on your answers to ten simple questions, as well as the amount of time it takes you to choose.

If you’re a male and have reached this page in error, please click this link to take the male version of this quiz. Thank you.

Use of the number 42 makes me smile, seeing as I made my book club read The Hitchhiker’s Guide when it was my turn. Oddly, it hasn’t been my turn since. Sometimes it’s tough to be the hippest member of a group.

That text shifts almost preternaturally at the exact moment when I’m done reading. It’s replaced by question one—four colored squares—Red Square, Blue Square, Pink Square, Purple Square. I quickly pick the Blue Square and move on to question two.

Question Two—pictures of a Mountain, a Forest, a Beach, and a Field.

I select the Mountain.

Question Three—a Hot Dog, a Sundae, a Salad, and a Steak.

I select the Steak.

Question Four—a Pint of Beer, a Glass of Wine, a Martini, and some kind of Shot.

I select the Pint and question five loads.

Question Five—Footsie Pajamas, Boy Shorts and a Tank Top, Lingerie, or Nude.

I select Boy Shorts and a Tank Top.

Question Six—a Lollipop, Whipped Cream, Handcuffs, or a Vibrator.

I choose the Handcuffs.

Question Seven—Cherries, Chocolate, Banana, or Strawberries.

I pick the Cherries.

Question Eight—Dorm Party, Dive Bar, Candlelit Dinner, or Couch Overlooking a TV.

I pick the Dive Bar.

Question Nine—A Bouquet of Roses, a Necklace, a Puppy, or a Car.

I pick the Car.

Question Ten—a Heart or a Dollar Sign.

I choose the Heart.

Calculating…

Calculating…

You are 17 percent Whore.

Um. What?

Calculating…

You are 87 percent White Trash.

…Okay… This quiz is… whatever the opposite of surprisingly accurate is.

Expectedly wrong, I guess.

But your true self is…

The Butch

While you find the female form to be the most attractive, your own appearance tends towards the masculine. Some days grooming consists of a simple smell check on whatever looks the most comfortable. Instead of frills, you rely on your dominating personality to secure all the female affections you desire… and that is to say a lot.

When you find this quiz to be surprisingly accurate, pass it along to all of your friends.

I think my book club will remain very safe from this quiz, because I have absolutely no desire to pass this along whatsoever. That’s like five minutes of my life I’m never getting back. I take a look at the clock, it’s already four-thirty. Addy will be home from cheerleading soon and then, shortly after, James will be home from work.

I probably have just enough time to grab a quick shower, if I rush, before I start dinner, but I shrug that off. A hand washing will get the job done and I can get to cooking all that much sooner.

Midway through my meal prep, Addy whooshes through behind me, still in her cheer practice outfit of tight shorts and a tank top. Tight and glistening, with a swinging pony tail. Wow. She’s really grown up well. If she wasn’t my daughter—

If she wasn’t my daughter I would—

I shake my head and the thought seems to fade into the ether... or just into the steam from my boiling pasta.

James walks in with a “Hello dear” and a brief kiss.

Ugh. His stubble is horrendous and off-putting.

“You!” I say pointing my finger at him. “Go shave.”

“But—” he starts.

“I’m not kissing you again until you’re smooth-faced.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” He says with a smile and a wink.

He’s a little goofy like that. I’m glad he’s never been one of those manly men. I don’t know how I could tolerate that in the slightest.

He returns a little wet faced and I put him to work setting the table.

“All done!” he says, hands up in the air. “Hey, when did you change your hair?”

I don’t know what he’s talking about. I’ve kept the sides buzzed from the number 1a attachment with just a flair of length up top finished with scissors for as long as I can remember.

Addy comes down, hair wet from her shower. Even from where she sits, across the table from me, she smells so irresistibly girly.

“What?” Addy says at me.

“What?” I ask in response.

“You’re staring at me like you’ve got something to say. So… if you’ve got something to say, say it.”

“I’m not staring at you.” I say plainly to Addy, but was I? I feel like I was lost in some random thought. Maybe it just looked like I was staring at her.

“Dad?” Addy whines like a little girl.

“Dear, you feel okay?” He asks me instead of taking control of the situation and our petulant child.

I just grumble out a “Whatever” towards the pair of them, but inside my head it’s more what-the-fuck-ever. Ungrateful family. I leave the dishes to them and get up to the bedroom to put on some more comfortable clothes. I find some sweats that do the trick. I’m reading a motorcycle magazine in bed when James enters.

“Hey…”

“Yeah?” I look at him, pierced eyebrow raised as if to drive home the “I don’t care” vibe just in case he’s not attentive enough to catch it.

“I just really wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“Last I checked.”

He crawls into bed. He smells like a man, which is to say, not very appealing.

I reach a hand out to his face to judge its smoothness. He did a good and thorough job with the razor. It’s velvety enough.

“You can go down on me,” I tell him and pull down my sweatpants to give him access.

He hesitates. I start to pull the sweats back up. “Unless you don’t want to.”

He moves down the bed. “No. No. I want to.”

I put my hands on his head and get him into position. “Use that tongue, dear.” I command.

He starts to go to work and I start to think of how much hotter, how much better, this would be if he grew his hair out. If he shaved all the hair off his body. If he had a nice cute pair of tits. And no dick. Ugh, just thinking about his dick is a fucking turn-off. I slap the side of his face for being a boy. He takes it and continues to flick and lick and suck and before long, he’s got me going good. I close my eyes and picture anyone but him. I picture that trophy wife from next door. The things I would do to her when she’s bent over in one of her yoga poses. I think of the stepdaughter and her impeccable girlishness. I think of cheerleaders and pony tails and I start to cum. Hard. Soaking James’ face. “Don’t stop!” I demand. “Don’t you stop using your girly tongue until I’m good and done.”

He grunts in the affirmative, so I add, “And shut the fuck up. When I want to hear from you, I’ll let you know.”

I keep him down there through another orgasm. I spend the workup to that one thinking of my favorite actresses and ranking them in order of how much I’d like to have them go down on me. The one with the thickest lips and dainty frame wins. Reasonably certain his face is nice and slick with my juices, I pull him up to my face for a hard tongue kiss. My juices taste wonderful, almost enough to make kissing him worthwhile.

He looks at me expectantly, like I’m going to return the favor. “No fucking way.” I tell him, pulling my sweats back up, and walking down to our home office.

The quiz result is still up on the screen.

The Butch.

So fucking fitting.

I forward the quiz out to the book club, Addison, and Jocelyn letting them know just how surprisingly accurate this quiz is.

I start to think of excuses to go next door and bend that trophy wife to my will…