The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

WeaverTunes: The Perfect Mix

AUTHORS NOTES:

New to posting here and trying to create a whole story mechanism through The Weaver, so any and all feedback (good, bad, and mild) is welcome. Please send it to . Enjoy!

SYNOPSIS: William builds a mix for his crush Tiffany. However, one of the tracks he downloads from WeaverTunes, a site whose free-to-download songs change the listener mentally and/or physically. Tiffany, her roommate, her RA, and William will never be the same.

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.

CHAPTER 2 — Scientific Progress or Bust

WILLIAM WILDER

There’s a lot less trickery needed to get a slave to put on headphones. You basically just have to say, “Put on those headphones,” and then… mission accomplished.

That’s exactly what I say to Jennifer Chen as I wake up from one of the best nights of sleep in my life feeling refreshed and inspired and yet sexually exhausted. Apparently, something about have three women become my slaves because of some magical song agrees with me. Traditionally, I’d consider myself a one-woman man. I only found myself in this position because I wanted to put together a great mix of songs for Tiffany Taylor, my Psych 101 crush. Instead of getting the date I sought, the song I’m a Slave 4 U turned her into just that—a slave for me. I know it’s probably wrong to pick favorites, but since I was into her before all of this began, she’s got a special place in my heart. Unlike her roommate May Sanders and Jennifer, I allow Tiffany to refer to me as William instead of Master.

May is something special herself, blessed in all the right areas—specifically the best tits I’ve ever seen in my life. And I’ve been on the internet. A lot. She basically confessed to being into Tiffany before Tiffany played the song and brought May into my slave fold.

As the last addition, and a complete stranger, their RA Jennifer continues to seem like an ideal guinea pig for experimentation. She sits naked in the desk chair, wearing nothing but headphones, as I scroll through the WeaverTunes website. Tiffany and May, also naked, sit on the edge of the bed. Looking over at them, I’m inspired. “Gently rub each other’s clits. But no cumming until I say so.” It looks like Tiffany has a glimmer of a pout at the second bit, and it’s fucking sexy, so I add, “Feel free to pout about that.” Both of their faces adopt an almost comical, adorably spoiled-looking pout. Two girls gently rubbing each other and pouting about not being able to climax. Apparently, I have another new thing to add to my list of turn-ons.

Torn, I somehow manage to look away from this tantalizing sight and return my attention to the site. Every song I could ever think of. Will they all have such a profound effect on the listener? Like, for instance, I listen to Superman by REM and… do I turn into Superman? Or do I just turn into someone who thinks they’re Superman and meet my demise when I have a big old epic fail on an extreme gravity check? Um. No thank you. I’ll play it safe. I don’t want to injure myself or any of the three lovely ladies under my control. Safe, but fun. The latter idea leads me to download Girls Girls Girls onto Tiffany’s laptop for Jennifer to listen to.

JENNIFER CHEN

I am William Wilder’s slave.

William Wilder is my master.

There is nothing more core to my identity than that. It is the first thought I think when I wake up next to him and my slave sisters. When he sees me stirring, he points me to the desk chair and tells me to put on the headphones. I shift out of the mass of bodies on the bed and do as I’m told.

Through the headphones, I hear his commands to May and Tiffany. My eyes look pleadingly to him, hoping he will command me to join in. Pleasure at his command is the greatest pleasure of all. Instead, he crouches next to me and scrolls through a website.

A song starts with a motorcycle engine, a guitar chord, a “woo,” and a laugh.

The headache to end all headaches rips through my head.

My sight goes purple-black with flashing star like lights.

I’m ripped from myself, folded, torn, and stuffed back inside.

All my pieces feel different.

But the flashing lights remind me of being up on the main stage at Player’s. The tip rail on the main stage is so much better than the side stages. I keep Johnny, the DJ/MC/Sleazy voice behind the microphone, properly tipped and avoid the second stage fate. Second stage sitters rarely even put a dollar on the rail and they never want a private dance and a girl’s gotta live.

My vision clears up.

My breathing settles.

I look around.

Some late-teen boy looks at me as if he’s never seen a woman before.

Two girls on a bed look like they’re practicing for some gonzo film.

I’m left wondering—

How did I end up in a strange dorm room with this trio?

Did someone slip me something last night?

WILLIAM WILDER

Holy.

Crap.

Going in, I thought maybe the songs from WeaverTunes had subliminals underneath. Some highly advanced deep hypnosis type shit. Weird, but not entirely out of the realm of possibility. Then, I hit play on the song and that particular theory went out the window, immediately started falling, and completely splattered on the ground below. This whole situation is mental, but the changes done to Jennifer Chen go way beyond mental.

Black covers her eyeballs as she shivers and shakes, grunting in guttural tones. A haze grows around her and sparkles, like glitter in strobe lights. Despite the blocking effect of the haze, it’s clear that changes are happening underneath. Her back arcs. Her body freezes momentarily in that position. Then, her chest blossoms and builds. She now has a substantial and massive rack so big that even the distortive field can’t block it from view.

The haze dissipates and I get a full view of what’s left behind. When she sat in that chair, mere moments ago, she was naked. Now she wears a sparkling silver dress that somehow seems more indecent, but maybe that’s just her revamped body. Her tits are round and fake looking. Her lips are equally artificially plumped. Her makeup in dark swaths across her face. She has skyscraper clear plastic heeled shoes on setting off gorgeous calves that weren’t there a few minutes ago. It’s certain without a doubt that the RA has fully and completely been replaced by a stripper.

The black retreats from her eyeballs. She takes a big gulping breath and for a moment looks frightened and confused, but that moment isn’t long-lived.

She stands, pulling the headphones from the laptop along with her, points at me with a long, perfectly manicured finger and says, “Who. The fuck. Are you?”

Even her voice and tone are different. If you stood new her next to old her, you wouldn’t even think they were closely related.

My mind whirls. How do you calm a pissed-off stripper?

I pull on my pants, not even bothering with underwear, and though I’m rushing I’m careful not to zip anything that shouldn’t be zipped as I zip up.

“Was the thousand not enough?” I ask as I pull my t-shirt down over my head.

“The thousand what?” She counters, hand on her cocked out hip.

“The thousand dollars I paid you to come over and entertain me and my girlfriends.”

“I don’t do that.” She says. Maybe despite her attire and posture, deep down she’s got a heart of gold. “I’m supporting my way through college.”

At least there’s that. She’s still a college student. I probe for a bit more information, though. “Which one?”

Instead of answering, she shrugs. Does she remember anything about her old life?

“Do you know who they are?” I say and point to May and Tiffany.

“The diddling twins?” She asks.

I nod.

“No.” She responds.

She has no memory of them. She also, apparently, has no memory of the school. Reality has taken a serious nose dive. I want to be impressed by the power of that website, but I’m too busy tap dancing trying to figure a way to handle the situation it’s put me in.

“I’m going to grab some beverages. You want anything?”

“No.” She responds and pulls a tiny metal clutch up off the floor. One she didn’t own previously because it didn’t exist. “I’m going to get.” She motions towards the door.

“Don’t!” I say a little too excitedly. She’s on guard already and even more so now. “Beverages and more cash. Yeah? Five minutes worth another hundred to you?”

She sits down in the chair, examining her bright red nail polish bored. “Five minutes.”

I give her a double thumbs up that feels dumb and awkward immediately after I exit out into the hallway.

I put my hands on my knees and take deep calming breaths.

A girl steps up to me.

“Can I help you?” She asks.

I honestly reply, “I don’t think so.”

“Who are you?” She asks.

I look up. I don’t recognize her. Redhead. Tiny and slender. “Who are you?”

“Kelly.” She says like it would mean something to me. “I’m the RA for this wing.”

Holy.

Crap.

DESTINY

The boy gives me a double thumbs up and leaves. How did I hook up with him? Unlike the diddle twins on the bed, I’m still clothed in my club attire. It looks like daylight shining through the window blinds. What in the actual fuck is going on?

“Hey. You two. What’s your deal?” I ask.

“We have to rub.” The blonde with the rack says.

“And we can’t cum.” The brunette says, deepening her already deep pout.

“Maybe you’re just not trying hard enough.” I say and laugh.

They don’t respond. I should leave the blonde my number. She could make some bank on the stage with that body and face. I’d double act with her. Us making out would make it rain and clearly with her hand in Brunette’s pussy, she doesn’t have any personal space issues.

I jiggle my own tits. Blonde’s look real. Mine I got when I gathered enough money waitressing. Club owner said I couldn’t set foot on stage with what I was born with. They’ve basically paid for themselves at this point, so money well spent.

Flicking open my clutch, I’m not seeing a spare grand in there. Kid’s lying. Probably lying about the hundo, too. Baby face doesn’t even look old enough to get into Player’s.

Since the pair on the bed don’t seem to care, I rummage through the room to see if I can find something to make this—whatever it is—worth my time.

School books.

Lame clothes. Mostly sweatshirts and jeans. Nothing stylish. Nothing with any flavor. Nothing I can do anything with.

Maybe I can make a mad dash with the laptop. When I examine it, I see that my favorite song is queued up. Time for a little impromptu audition. Let’s see if Blondie has any moves in her.

“You girls think you can dance for me?” I ask and hit play on Girls Girls Girls.

Ughn. A wave of arousal sweeps over me. I know I was asking the girls to dance, but I can’t help but shake my whole body to this track, responding to it like I’m on autopilot.

I squint at the other two girls in the room. They stop playing with each other and start to gyrate as well.

Why did I think they were naked a second ago? Blondie and Brunette are dancing in their g-strings.

I double-take at Brunette’s tits. What I thought were minimal are clearly big fake ones that rival my own. Blonde will draw men in with her great big naturals and when they’re close enough, they’ll probably also get hard at the thought of licking the stud piercings in each of her nipples.

I’m so glad I came to audition this pair, because they’re going to be big money earners at Player’s in no time.

Um. I raise a hand to my temple. Then shake my head. I mean, of course, Crystal and Natalia make big money. They started dancing not long after me at Player’s.

Must’ve been a rough night last night at Player’s for all three of us.

WILLIAM WILDER

Is there music coming from inside the room?

Specifically..?

Oh boy. Oof. I plug my ears just in case. Maybe I don’t need to. Maybe it wouldn’t even help. Who knows? The RA that wasn’t the RA ten minutes ago looks at me funny, but other than the possibility that she didn’t even exist ten minutes ago, she seems unchanged.

“Sorry. Headache. Maybe you could open that door, I—um—“ I look down at my bare feet. “I left my shoes in there.”

I need to get in there and stop the music. Hopefully undamaged.

She knocks on the door, then pounds, as it starts to open, I start to scream “la la la” repeatedly. She turns to look at me then a sparkly haze falls around her. I run through her into the room and bound towards the laptop to stop the song.

I breathe deep and exhale a “phew” when I see that I haven’t become a stripper myself, but then I assess my surroundings. The room itself is completely changed from the room I left. It’s not an average college girl dorm room anymore. Stripper heels and stripper clothes are flung everywhere. But that isn’t the biggest change. The occupants themselves are no longer the ones I’d left behind not so long ago.

Tiffany, if that’s still her name even, wears a slinky evening dress that barely covers some new assets up top. I’m not an expert by any means, but suffice it to say, “titties” no longer applies to these beasts. They sit high and very round. When I force my eyes elsewhere, I see her hair is teased out, her makeup heavily applied, and her overall demeanor says she’s not a wallflower anymore.

I’d say May is a Barbie doll brought to life. Her hair looks longer, shinier; her tits the same size, but much more prominent with her body tightened elsewhere with her freshman fifteen gone. Was there ever a Barbie with pierced nipples? I don’t know. I never played with dolls. That’d be pretty cool, though. Her face is dolled up in “bimbo chic” giving her a vacant, dulled expression.

Kelly, the replacement RA, underwent a transformation of her own. Ironically, her breasts stayed the size of a plum, but she wears a black lace teddy with a matching choker around her neck. The most startling change is the way her skin got so pale as to almost be white. It makes her red hair appear all the more red. With dark eyeliner and blood red lipstick, she looks like a vampire goth dream of a stripper. Fuck. Another kink I didn’t know about myself. I wonder if she’s up for an impromptu dorm room lap dance?

But all four strippers glare at me. Clearly, I don’t belong here.

All four faces read “what the fuck?” and they aren’t seconds away from a gang bang—they’re seconds away from ganging up on me and handing me my ass.

Before they can move, before they can even speak, I whip back around to the laptop, queue up I’m A Slave 4 U, hit play, and hope my earplugging/”la” screaming will keep me safe.

Once the hazy glow surrounds all four, and they’re gyrating against the air, I cut the music, happy to find I’m still me with no submissive qualities. The anger that was just on their faces is gone. They seem calmer, but other than that, they still look like the strippers they became. I can’t find my thumb drive amongst the heels and flimsy dresses, but I do find a piece of paper and a pen. I write “Property of William Wilder” on it and hold it in front of each of the girls.

“I’m William Wilder.” I announce.

All four drop to the ground, saying, “Master.”

I tap Tiffany on the shoulder and ask, “Do you know who you are?”

“I am your slave.” She says, her head still bowed in deference to me.

I take a deep breath and run a hand through my hair. “Do you know what your name is?”

“Whatever my Master wants to call me.”

Let’s cut to the chase. “Where’s your wallet?”

Tiffany finds it and extends it out to me. A little metal clasp number. I open it up. Her driver’s license reads “Tiffany Taylor.” Thank god. The picture looks like the Tiffany kneeling before me and not the one I met in class. I wonder what other changes took place.

“Your name is Tiffany Taylor. Where did we meet?”

“Psych 101.”

Hey. Something I didn’t fuck up yet. Huz-fucking-zah.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“Your horny fuck-slave.”

Probably not what she came to college for. On the one hand, I’ve fundamentally changed four women. On the other hand, I spot Kelly and realize I’ve never in my life done anything with a redhead. Distracted, but can you blame me with four hot strippers ready, willing, and happy to do anything I want?

“Okay. All of you. The correct answer to what is your name is the name your parents gave you. The correct answer to any question I ask is the truth.”

I tap May. “What’s your name?”

“May Sanders.”

Cool. Two for two.

I tap RA number one. “What your name?”

“Jennifer Chen.”

Three for three.

I tap RA number two. “What’s your name?”

“Kelly Firth.”

“Tiffany, May, Jennifer, Kelly—stand in a line.”

They stand next to each other.

“Tiffany, when did you get fake tits?”

“Um…”

“Jennifer, when did you get fake tits?”

“Um…”

“May, when did you get your nipples pierced?”

“Um…”

I assess what I think I know. They retained their bodies from the latest change, so the physical remained but the mental changes overwrote everything else.

I’m A Slave 4 U appears to only effect the listener’s mind.

Girls Girls Girls warped both mind and body. And reality, if you count the fact that Jennifer was replaced as RA. Which prompts the question—

“Who is the RA for this floor?”

Jennifer answers, “I am, Master.”

This floor now has a stripper-turned-slave for its RA, but hey, it’s the girl who started the week as such. More or less. Reality not wholly fucked.

I’ll have to see if there’s a way to get them more or less back to “normal.”

But first—

“Kelly, lose your clothes.”

Kelly shucks off the black lace teddy, then her black lace g-string. She has a landing strip of dark red hair, further setting off her porcelain features.

I stride across to her and kiss her. She’s tentative at first, but feels my longing and takes over, forcing her tongue into my mouth. I take her slender hand in mine and bring it to my crotch. She smiles through her kiss, feeling the effect she’s already had on me.

I push her back for a moment.

“What do you want?”

“Whatever you—“

“No. What do you want?” I repeat.

She pauses, as if waiting for me to fill in the answer I want her to give, but eventually she looks me right into the eyes and says, “I want to suck you off.”

“That’s what I want.”

She drops to her knees and tears my pants down. I run my fingers through her hair as she starts to lick me in a swirl. A few licks in, I’m as hard as I can ever remember being. Redheaded goth girls are apparently a thing for me. She starts to bob back and forth. I grab a handful of her curly hair and pull it back to enjoy the view more clearly. Her dark painted lips wrapped around me. Her emerald eyes looking up, sexily and wordlessly begging for my cum. Her perky tits shaking with the force of her movements.

“I’m going to paint your tits.”

She groans in agreement around my dick, double timing her work and bringing me even closer to the edge. I start to tense and she leans back, swinging her hair behind her head, giving me the perfect view of her face and jerking me off with both of her hands.

She says, “Yes,” once when I start cumming.

She says, “Yes,” again pushing her chest out even further to catch each drop.

When I’m done, exhausted in both senses, she softly echoes out a final, “Yes.”

She’s panting and painted.

“Clean her up,” I say to the other three and they immediately pounce on her with their tongues.

I take a seat at the desk and start to scroll through songs on WeaverTunes.

There has to be a way to set things right.

Barring that, a safe, everyone-wins-in-some-way-or-another path to more fun.