The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

WeaverFeed Quiz: Winning Over the Stepdaughter

AUTHORS NOTES:

This particular mechanism started with WeaverFeed Quiz: Your True Self. For more stories, and to support more stories, please consider my Patreon.

SYNOPSIS:

More “innocents” find themselves caught in the web of the enigmatic Weaver, but this time a stepmom and stepdaughter find their charged relationship changed through the power of his own unique spin on the standard personality quiz.

DISCLAIMERS:

This story is a work of fiction; any apparent resemblance between the characters in this story and any actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental and unintentional.

Do not read this story if you are under the age of 18 or if explicit sexual fiction is illegal in your jurisdiction.

This story contains mind control and explicit descriptions of a sexual nature. If any of these concepts disturb you, please find something else to read.

This story is a work of erotic fantasy. It is not meant to reflect real life, nor should it be read as an endorsement of the actions and attitudes contained within.

GRACE KENT

My stepmother Victoria Weisse is a cunt.

I’m not traditionally a fan of that sort of word or language, as it feels like a carryover from the patriarchy, but when the cunt fits…

My dad’s a bit of a bastard, too. He clearly arranged to be conveniently out of town when he knows I’m on winter break from my junior year of college. I couldn’t have been any clearer on my schedule. He probably thinks there’s some way this forced time together will create a fine and mighty bond between me and step-monster. He’s wrong.

“You like wine, Grace?” Vicky asks, smug look on her perky face.

I barely have my bags loaded in from my car and she’s already pouncing.

She probably assumes I don’t know my way around a bottle, being a decade her junior, but, looking at the label, I see that she’s trying to ply me with…

…Well, that’s actually a really good bottle.

I’m less mad at her trying to pawn off bad wine on an uneducated palette, because that’s clearly not her plan, and instead I’m incredibly pissed she’s spending my dad’s hard-earned cash on her drinking.

She extends a heavy-pour glass to me. “Truce?”

I take it. She clearly (wrongly) assumes we’re good and keeps talking to me.

“A good friend of mine, Olivia Scarlett recommended this personality quiz, saying it was surprisingly accurate. I’ve been holding off on taking it, thinking it might be a good icebreaker for us.”

“I’ll do it.” I swear she almost does a happy dance when I agree, so I drop my curveball immediately after. “On the condition that when we’re done, we’re done. No more attempts to force a connection between us. You go your way and I’ll go mine.”

In response to my verbal slap down, she pouts a little. I find it hard to believe that she’s actually older than me, sometimes. She’s less mature, at least mentally. She dresses like she’s in high school still, all flowy tops and jeans. She’s in her mid-thirties and she already has laugh lines around her eyes. I blame her stupid omnipresent smile. It makes her look like an idiot. The fact that she doesn’t take care of herself or her looks shows she has no self-respect. My father is right to walk all over her. She settles for table scraps and I’m supposed to respect her? Befriend her? Fuck that. She’s the reason women get paid less than men with her constant need to settle in exchange for affection. Now she wants my affection? I’ll take a hard pass on that.

She speaks, “Okay, I’m forwarding the link to your email, if you want to get your computer—”

I hold up my phone. “I’ll just do it on this. No point in spending any more time than absolutely necessary.”

“…okay…”

She looks like she’s going to cry. She has her laptop out on the kitchen table and types away, avoiding eye contact with me for the moment. Calling that a small victory.

I get the email and click the link. I sway a little on my feet. Maybe I should’ve eaten before drinking. Oh, well, it passes. I’m ready to get this quiz out of the way and be done with Vicky.

This site reads:

Welcome to WeaveFeed 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.

That text seems to know when I’m done reading and is instantly replaced by question one.

It’s four colored squares—Red Square, Blue Square, Pink Square, Purple Square and I’m supposed to pick one. Yeah, I have a lot of faith in Vicky’s friend’s opinion on the accuracy of this quiz. It’s SOOOO complex. Maybe this Olivia is a waste of space like her friend Vicky. Guilt by association, if nothing else.

Vicky calls over to me, “I picked the Pink Square.”

Thankfully, I have no desire to do anything like my stepmother. Not that I’d ever pick the Pink square. I pick the Blue Square and question two loads.

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

I select the Beach and move on to question three.

“I picked the beach!” Vicky calls out.

Crap, we have something in common.

“It’s probably better if you don’t tell me what you pick, ya know?”

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

I select the Sundae.

“You on question four yet?” Vicky asks.

I give her a nod.

“Me too!” She says, far too excited for a human being going through an inane quiz.

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

I select the glass of wine and question five loads. Thankfully, Vicky’s gone silent.

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

I assume this is asking me how I like to sleep and select the nude, but I shudder. I really don’t want to picture Vicky in ANY of these options.

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

I choose the handcuffs, even as I hear Olivia chuckle at whatever she’s choosing.

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

I pick the Strawberries.

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

I pick the Dorm Party.

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

I pick the Necklace and hear Vicky coo, “Aw, what a cute puppy!”

“I’m at question ten,” I call out to Vicky hoping to silence her, “…so we’re almost done here.”

“Me too!”

Question Ten—only two choices for this one—a heart or a dollar sign.

Are they asking love or money?

You can’t buy anything with love.

I choose the dollar sign.

Calculating…

Calculating…

You are 23 percent Whore.

What. The. Fuck?

“What kind of quiz did you just have me take, Vicky?”

“Please, Grace. My name is Victoria. I’m always nothing but friendly with you. Why do you have to be such a bitch?”

You are 67 percent Bitch.

“According to this, I’m only sixty-seven percent Bitch.”

“So far, I’ve been thirteen percent Ditz and forty-seven percent Princess.”

“So maybe it is accurate…”

But your true self is…

The Narcissist

To you, “you” are everything. All worlds revolve around you. All decisions should as well. You need attention. You crave attention. You’ll do anything for attention, because in your vaunted opinion, you’re worth it.

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

“This shitty ass quiz just called me a Narcissist. Why would you make me do this?” I rush to look down over her shoulder to see her result.

But your true self is…

The Trophy Wife

Your highest aspiration in life is to be arm candy for your fella. You work hard at looking good and will go to the ends of the Earth to keep him happy and interested. You defer to your husband for all decisions, big or small. After all, he wears the pants and you wear the short skirts… when he lets you wear anything at all, that is.

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

If she were pouting before, she’s damn near tears. Her quiz result erases any bad mojo I was feeling about my own. I laugh the loudest I can ever remember laughing in my life and start to slow clap.

“As much as I doubt its assessment of me, the Trophy Wife does sound surprisingly accurate for you, Vicky.”

“It’s Victoria!” She yells at me, tears falling down her face, as she runs out of the room. I hear a door slam shut deeper in the house. Looks like it won’t be that difficult to get my own space at home after all.

I pocket my phone and start down the hall to my room, thankfully at the opposite end of the house from the master suite. I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. I turn and find myself looking at the hallway mirror for a moment. Looking good, Grace Kent, looking real good.

VICTORIA WEISSE

This was a bad idea. I don’t know why I thought it would work, trying to win Grace over. Geoff said it was a useless endeavor with slim to no chance of success. He doesn’t even know where he went wrong with Grace, but she someone turned out to be a “queen bitch.” His words. He called his own daughter a queen bitch. And this is one of the kindest, gentlest men I’ve ever known. It is hilarious, and actually surprisingly accurate, that she got named The Narcissist by the quiz. As such, I’m going to have to say that the quiz is fifty percent accurate. I’m no trophy wife. Geoff tolerates me in all my imperfect glory. Baby fat. Can you still call it baby fat if you’re in your thirties? I’ve just never been keen on exercise in any of its forms. Besides, Geoff and I? We’re a team. It’s not about what one of us does. It’s about the both of us. We make decisions as a team. Next up, we’ll have to decide what to do with the brat kid of his. The queen bitch. The Narcissist.

I take in some deep calming breaths. I can’t believe I let her see me cry. I can’t believe I let her drive me to tears in the first place.

I walk to the master bathroom to grab some tissue and splash some cold water on my face.

I see myself in the mirror.

I’m not bad looking.

I could really stand to lose a few pounds. I pinch a bit of my love handles. These could definitely go with the right workout routine. A little more judiciously applied makeup and I’d be a bit of a looker.

The tears vanish to a smile at the thought of Geoff proudly parading me around for all to see.

Some more work all around and Geoff would be that much happier to have me on his arm.

Not the me in the mirror.

A better me.

Me, but committed to a strict workout routine and diet.

Me, but dedicated to more frequent trips to the salon to perfect and maintain my look.

I immediately pull off my jeans.

Why in the world would I ever wear jeans?

My hair is dull and lifeless… and brown.

None of this will do.

None of it.

GRACE KENT

Eye contact. Staring deep into the most perfect eyes I’ve ever seen.

I break away from this perfect gaze to run my eyes down this ultimate body. All over tan, because she wants even the sun to see all of her.

So glad I moved away from the hallway mirror. It was too small. Even after I dropped all of my clothes, it was hard to get my full admiration on. Now that I’m in the guest bath, I can see a lot more of myself—almost everything when I bend the right way. I can watch as I grip my pert and flawless tits, bringing my nipples to full attention. I lick my well-maintained manicured fingers before plunging them into my fully-groomed pussy. I feel as good as I look and as I continue to give the attention this body needs, I feel better and better.

I hope Vicky comes in. I hope she busts in through that door and sees me finger fucking myself, the ideal glean of sweat glistening like diamonds on my faultless form. She deserves to see what absolute beauty looks like, even if she could never hope to achieve it. She could find inspiration in my unmitigated glory. She could bow before me, genuflecting, praying to my living altar of looks, love, and lust. Just thinking of her imagined admiration has me cumming like a spigot, squirting my pristine love juices all over the mirror. I clean it up with my tongue so as not to waste this cherished fluid.

I leave the bathroom slick, naked, and with a plan—I need Vicky’s worship.

VICTORIA WEISSE

I’m sweaty from my evening workout routine, but it’s the price of a good body. A body that Geoff would be proud to call wife. I hop in the shower. I use the color sensitive shampoo on my blonde hair. Can’t have that color fade. Not while Geoff’s away. Just because he’s out of town doesn’t mean I can slip up. He could be home any minute. I must maintain. After the shower—Makeup… Hair... Heels... The little black dresses that he loves so much. The ones that highlight an ass defined by an hour on the stairmaster, twice a day. The one that barely covers said ass. The cut that highlights the cleavage from my doctor-prescribed tits. It was all Geoff’s decision, and money. He wanted orbs that genetics didn’t deliver to me naturally to balance out my hard-earned ass.

Strutting down the hallway on the way to the kitchen to grab a cucumber to practice for Geoff’s return, I’m stopped when a completely naked Grace steps into my way. She doesn’t just stand there. She presents herself. I can almost hear her head ringing with “ta dah.”

I push past her. I’m on a mission. Giving perfect head isn’t something that you’re just born capable of doing. Like everything in life, it requires attention to detail and constant practice.

GRACE KENT

Vicky doesn’t stop in stupefied wonder on sight of my resplendent naked form. Instead, she pushes past me and keeps walking to the kitchen. I can’t have that. I can’t have that at all. I want her worship. I need her worship.

I find her on her knees in the kitchen, bobbing back and forth on a cucumber. Using her right hand to plunge it deep into her throat, pulling it out, and then repeating. I’m almost impressed by just how much she can take in. She wears a tiny black dress and, on the other end of the spectrum, impossibly tall heels. Her hair is done up and styled. Her makeup is applied. She looks like she’s ready for some gala or club, but really she’s just performing oral on a vegetable in her kitchen.

“Stop.” I say.

“Can’t.” She says briefly removing the cuke. “Fifteen minutes practice every morning and night. I must maintain my ability for your father.”

The moment she finishes speaking, she’s bobbing again.

“What if he didn’t want that?”

This confuses her. She fully pauses. It’s a little comical to see my stepmother on her knees, wet cucumber in hand, asking me, “What do you mean?”

“What if he wanted to watch you go down on a girl? Men love that. Have you practiced that?”

Her confusion turns to concern. “I haven’t.”

I lay down on the cold tile floor, supporting my upper body on my arms, my legs spread wide. “You’ll never find a better one than mine.” I tap the inside of my thigh. “Come get your practice in.”

Vicky starts to stand, I stop her with a command. “Don’t stand. Crawl towards me, Vicky.”

She stops at my feet, so near to where she needs to be right now. “My name is Victoria. Your father calls me Victoria.”

“I’ll scream out Victoria the moment you make me cum.”

Our bargain met, Victoria finishes her journey and starts to tease my folds with her tongue. She may not put in two-a-days of practice, but her talented mouth and trained tongue make up for any lack of experience.

I grab her by the hair and pull her away for a moment. “Tell me how perfect my pussy is.”

“You have a perfect pussy, Grace.”

“I know.” I say and push her head back down where it belongs, in wordless worship.

GEOFF KENT

I hope Victoria and Grace haven’t killed each other. I promised to stay out of the way for the evening so that Victoria could put in one last attempt to win Grace over. Not an easy feat. Possibly an impossible one. I don’t hear anything breaking when I slowly insert my key into the front door lock, but then, even as I gently, silently enter, I hear Grace scream out, “Victoria!” with a force that can’t mean anything good.

It sounded like it came from the kitchen.

I find Grace splayed out on the floor, naked.

Victoria’s wearing an impossibly small dress. Her body looks different—better. Her hair. Her face. It’s like she’s had an extreme makeover.

Nothing makes sense. I’m frozen even as Victoria crawls on her hands and knees over to me.

“Tell me what you want. You know your little trophy wife is ready and willing to do anything for you.” Victoria says in a sensual, throaty voice.

Then, Grace, still naked, screams at me. “Tell me I’m your perfect girl, daddy!”