The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

A BIG BIMBO TIME MACHINE

The world’s first time machine wasn’t even technically a machine. Yeah. I know. It’s a pretty funny gimmick, ain’t it.

To this day, folk sometimes say a bimbo (or maybe even bimbos, plural) invented it, this time machine that’s, y’know… NOT a time machine. But, come on.

F’real? Do you honestly believe a BIMBO was able to hook her french tips around such a lofty concept as TIME TRAVEL?

The lab coat alone would get too restrictive, too… girly-itchy on the boobs, and the butts, and all other manner of big, you know, like, dowdily hidden big-girl parts.

(Culonavirus was surely no laughing matter. Tittering and tottering, on the other hand. . .)

No, that simply wouldn’t do. It’d be an easier sell to imagine a reunion of rock star millionaires, doing it together one more time, bringing it all back home, pro bono, “just for the fun of it.”

No, just. Not. Possible.

Bimbos gotta bimbo... This, of course, applies all the way, throughout time. What a shocker: they never really do anything at all that’s anything surprising.....

Reverse cowgirl is as chaste as church country, now.

But, to be fair, that’s pretty much what we sign up for, in a bimbo. Isn’t it? We like it this way, gosh darn it, and so do they!

They’re not exactly rebels — although, some of them still wear that flag—no matter how many times we try to contextualize the half-remembered horror of it—in some southern states.

Prow Klingaz, is what they’re calling themselves now, I believe. Who could even care… They’re dumb as all fuck, and they got guns.

You do the bimbo math here, I’m working up a sweat.

Some really stacked fuckin’ chicks, though. Like you wouldn’t believe. It can get kind of crazy. Ass for miles...

As the stories go, our second ever civil war was the biggest extended clusterfuck there would ever be. . .

Whether or not that was five decades ago, or five centuries, jeez, is still up for debate — SADLY.

T-9 is not a time slave.

We don’t really know what’s going on with the temporal displacement that scientists the world over are referring to as time diaspora.

Some time thing. . .

* * *

“Miranda, did you…” Brandon stopped, unsure of just how to say, in the not-wrong way, that his girlfriend of three years was putting on weight. It wasn’t even bad weight, necessarily.

No, not even! It was good weight, straight up. Soft. Specifically in the hips and bust department. Well, definitely the hips department.

He had heard of Culonavirus before, but this was. This was...

So went the ass department. She got the whole length (and width) of the store, actually. 30 pounds? 40?

40 inches now, anyhow. At least!

They’d only been apart two weeks! What the fuck? “I’ve been kind of pigging out lately.” Yeah right! It was ridiculous.

When would it ever stop? 200 pounds? Christ, why was that making him super hard all over again? Fuck!

She looked like a younger, slutty — no, not sluttier… a… more sexually advanced, let’s say, version of herself.

She looked ten years younger. She looked sixteen when she was really in her mid-forties. It was balls out madness.

Not that either of them were COMPLAINING, necessarily — why would they?—but it seemed like an off-putting medical miracle. Right?

They were having so much sex, he agreed to let her see old friends and ex-boyfriends. Only because he couldn’t keep up on his own.

She was just too horny, all the fucking time!

He didn’t have enough cum for all of that. Plus it was making his dick irritated and sore.

Although… could his dick, could that have maybe been getting bigger, too? Even that?

FUCK!

Miranda smiled and put on a new coat of cherry cola, star spangled lip balm. “Did I what, bubba? Get a perm! Uhh — yah. Totally!”

She smiled (with buck teeth he’d never seen) into a little double chin, itself another new arrival. Wow. Li’l piggy...

His live-in partner — indeed her hard essence, her angular, outdoorsy face, had given in under the hot pink stress of becoming a dumb, drooly cock magnet.

Randi twirled a gold and shocking blue lock of aerosol-smelling brightness. Hair was real fun!

“Oh my GOD!” she decked her man on the shoulder girlishly, snorting and laughing like a thick girly pig.

“I didn’t even tell you! I done gotted my belly button piercin’ed!” She gestured to her tummy, grabbing his hand.

* * *

The Madonna remix blared on in the background. “Papa Don’t Preach,” but like five or six times as long. Twenty, forty, however many minutes long.

Wow. So addictive. Slowed down. Sounded strange...

Denise Pedersen swiveled her hips to the beat anyhow. Slowly. She was worried about contracting Culonavirus.

She felt like she’d put on twenty, twenty-five pounds over the past few weekends. Everything was moving just right.

Music felt so fucking good, got her good and so wet. So fucking WET...

It was weird. D.F.S.F Nites never used to be like this — they never used to be this… sexual.

She got toned, naturally, almost jacked last week. Just by dancing! That was fun, for sure...

The weekly church social (whose name stood for Dance Freedom Smoothie Fever) was a passionate get-together for hot guys and girls in the parish.

At first, the dance competition was playful, but now it was getting flirtatious and kind of… militant?

Was that the word? So many words were slipping away from Denise these days. Militant… military… type. Right?

She furrowed her brow, which did that thing that happened so often lately, when doing anything with her eyebrows caused her dumb bottom lip to droop out, and open—

Like it was her dumb little face-clit...

What did “militant” mean again? That was the right word. Right? Denise felt so super-slow! All the time! FRUSTRATING!

“Militant.” It sounded just WEIRD, rolling and whisper-screaming around her head.

Like a brainwash ping-pong game of slut-itaire she was losing. Simple words started to sound just.... Wrong?

And all along, her eyes were turning color, she was busting out of every last bra she owned, and she couldn’t stop drooling. . .

New Niecey was, like, permanently wet and gently fragrant, a sweet fuzzy tincture of pheromones.

There was this... thing that was happening, to her brain. It had a name. Well, if it had a name, it usually escaped her, too.

Besides just feeling like a fattened-up bimbo… It was called something… with syllables… fuck it.

But now… Now, her hip bones had flared out, like some kind of magic trick, or more than likely, a weird biblical fertility event. But before she could even think, she realized she couldn’t.

It was hard not to fall right into the church of St. Brittany’s busty open arms, giggle and breathe in...

Each of the six exits on the ground level of Soffgurls Pub & Club were manned by top-shelf bimbos.

Huge, soft tits and ass, spilling out of last year’s little girl bullshit clothes.

Girls is made to be bigg and hott...

* * *

- “I don’t know. You don’t think it’s growin’ TOO fast? I ain’t not sure I’m be able to fit into that plane seat no more, and that’s the only way off this here Christian island.”

- “I’m sure you’ll be fine. As long as you keep eating more, and make sure to rub it like that, but only in this room. K?

The yoga ball and trampoline will help you, but DON’T use them! You still need to put on half a dozen inches before you can lose any.”

- “Okay, daddy. That makes horse sense, I think.”

Then you fuckin NEIGHED, bitch—

Strange times, this Culonavirus...

* * *

This morning, you woke up to find herself in a damp sweat. Reggie the rubber robo-dong was busy servicing your big sticky thigh meat.

You shook your head. You promised to get the fuck OUT of here last night. Why was you basically just fine, now, waking up to biscuits and ham gravy AGAIN?

This has to fucking STOP.

* * *

So, stop spreading that shit about time machines. I bet you’re pretty smart. In fact, I’m sure you’re smart. Otherwise, y’all wouldn’t have any use for reading.

You owe it, then, to stewards of the future like me, and to my children’s children, and their friends or whatever... on and on. You owe it to us. Culonavirus or no.

The truth is, it’s just common sense. Time machines depend on a ton of complex wiring, first of all, obviously. They’re time machines. And bimbos are nothing if not impatient.

Even if blueprints were written on meaty shafts and blue balls, those girls still wouldn’t retain much info.

A liberal slathering of mental elbow grease, a brainstem without a hardwired cable to their innermost id, the most shoved and teased libido?

These things are KIND OF a big deal, if you want to build and maintain a time device. Quite a romantic notion to be sure, that now classic, paradoxical and ancient Pon’Ye-MieraCane canard.

We all know how it goes, or we should by now, better anyway than that old and outmoded pledge of allegiance, with its false presentations of devotion and patriotism:

“A group of bimbos, three or seven, made it possible for us to time travel, and stay forever in their heaven and unravel, in the purview of every holy direction, in service of God’s own erections all of the time, in kelly green, royal blue and pink melon slime.”

Hogwash! And not the good kind!

* * *

I’m about to say something that might lose us like THOUSANDS of subscriptions. Shit.

So what, though? I might as well sink this electronic magazine before it can even get its fuckin’ self off the ground. Like. Omigosh. Ruh-roh, right!?

Oh well. I guess maybe, like, I’on’t even care. Would that even be so bad — if I didn’t care?

Basically, when you think about it, we’re just about two short decades away from, like, a stratified hundred or two years of forced bimboization.

This isn’t even taking into account the RIDICULOUSLY incentivized himboization… If there was a New Civil War, it would’ve been fought already. Shit was tight, in the good ol’ U.S. of A.

You might be surprised to know all of this. Seriously, I’m at the end of my rut-slut rope. For real, though… Listen. Hear me out. Try to keep an open mind.

If we can win back the women’s rights our moms and grandmothers fought so hard for, literally like a hundred years ago now, we can accomplish anything.

I truly believe this. Don’t make me regret the faith I have in y’all, okay?

Okay.

* * *

After the workout, Trent had agreed to Belley’s invitation, and he followed her to the top of that weird half-ball pit outside Taco Fentley’s, at the top of the Poren Sprangue’s water tower.

So many steps… She should have just accepted his offer to carry her sleepy bimbo ass up them steps.

Belley yawned and broke wind a bit, carrying some cute, but definitely EXTRA layers of fat around the middle, fucking with her center of gravity, making her kind of a centaur, what with the extra all-natural butt padding…

“You’re gonna like it! You’re gonna need a girl like me, dude. Tellin’ you! Yo.”

* * *

Raylene didn’t really enjoy waiting poolside in the blistering sun for the photographer to get back.

She found that, ever since the town had given her that naturally (much) bigger butt, whenever she was bored and near sunstroke from bimbo delirium, was when it happened.

She just couldn’t stop twerking in place.

She’d do it for the next 35 minutes, brain flickering on and off, before realizing the photographer must have been long finished.

The onetime accounts manager then sauntered underneath a patio umbrella, then fucked herself to happy time…

* * *

Fuck it. Who cared if it was a cliche. That shit was fucking true. You can guess.

Hugh LOVED to watch you leave. You’d put on forty summer pounds in just over two months, in all the right girly areas.

Bigger ass, with plenty of real estate outside of denim. You were now a classic Cali beach bum bimbo with cheek leak daisy dukes.

You were just kind of, irrevocably a big dumb bimbo now. Kinda fun! You know.

“I can feel your eyes on my ass,” the newer, boisterous Emma Lee squealed, in a much, much higher register than you’d intended.

You always gruffed up, butched your voice up as much as womanly possible, but no. Not no more...

Now, you sounded like a hobbled, slowed down, tubby Marilyn Monroe. Sex, horniness, creaminess, weight gain, stoner life, mild alcoholism, horny horny horny?

“Hugh-unnngh! Fuck you, dude! You can’t just beat off in front of me, man!”

You was rubbing yer own junk while standing there with him, anyhow.

“Chase your cream,” you thought. Chase your cream...

* * *

She was always Mousy Mary to you and all your girlfriends, but this most recent skype with her sure showed off some big... developments... Cherub Cream?

You’d heard of it before, but if it could give such a tiny, nothing girl titties like these, what could they do to your C cups? Your man was in for quite a surprise in a few… was it weeks, or days?

* * *

PINK TUFF ASS FORCE

“Bloat videos?” Detective Nessey spat. “What do you mean, bloat videos?”

She wrapped a little hunk of ABC BimChu around a ridiculous finger — electric pink henna, french tips, and a sick-making, candy peach sort of stink that followed.

It was clear that beats spent on the strip were determinedly getting to the police girl — she still objected to THAT new title, though.

“Wife” and “mom” were still classic signifiers, no matter how many... ethicals she’d had, about her new “response abilities,” or whatever they were called. . .

* * *

These just weren’t movies, after a point. It was hard to call seeing the Sutt Wars franchises in the theater “going to the movies.” Not really.

Okay, first of all, a movie is at LEAST like, 80 mins. these days, right? This process takes five minutes, MAYBE ten for more ambitious directors, and that’s it.

These were more like download packs than anything. You sat in a chair, your coochie vibrated, and that was that.

You left with six and a half hours of movie inserted into your skull, past your vocab, even. Into your whole. . .

* * *

+

Zellie-Belley DiZONKERTELLI (2039—)

45 Rowndedge Court, Apt. GG

Faire-Trayed™ presents PatriServ Township, North Isaianiah

S/E CC TEA-SEZ, US-LOAM*

S.S. no.: 9-11-95825902**

Twitter, Instagram, PopThicc—@DiZonkaZonk

[ALLEGATION/s: treason, indecent exposure, slander, slang use, counterfeiting, forgery, drug use, public indecency, misallocation of government funds, sex trafficking, endangering children, three counts of larceny, gender terrorism, and endangerment of the elderly.]—

*southeast corridor of these U.NIFIED S.TATES of L.IONHEARTED O.RIGINS for A.SPIRATIONAL M.EN and their women—

**SluttButt Security number. Every top-down, fully bimboized woman was gifted the luxury of having the 9-11 prefix.

Maybe because once you accepted welfare from US-LOAM, it made you a truly unforgettable bimbo?

Who knows WHAT the church’s sick endgame was with THAT one, my god...

* * *

GOTTA HAVE MY RAAAANCH

Let me tell you a little bit about Ranch Raiders, first. Before you can understand why Rachel Dumas is a perfect, almost by-birthright Ranch Raider, let’s dial it back a bit and really get to the bottom of what it means to be a Ranch Raider, ’cuz these my fuckin’ GIRLS! ’kay.

First of all, they LOVE ranch. That’s kinda the thing, with Ranch Raiders. Duh.

It makes them drunk, high, full, all sorts of like, pussy-wet, bloated, chubby, addicted…

SOME OTHER TRAITS:

* * *

Zack crushed the can on his forehead. He started breaking down another box. The kind of box that used to hold a thirty rack of the Dude.

Hang on — Why couldn’t he just come to terms with the notion, that he’d plowed straight on through another family freedom pack?

Zack crushed the can on his forehead. He started breaking down the empty 30 rack of the Dude. Had it really only been three days since his first taste? Seriously?

It wasn’t even close to dark yet, and already he’d smashed his way to ten cans of this stuff. Mountain Dude was surely the shit, but he’d just barely finished lunch!

Sometimes, he had to catch himself before he got to thinking too critically about his intake, and his poorly met choices as a newly married American consumer.

What, indeed, was the big deal about this shit, anyhow? He smashed another can, again tamping down any consequence of this new reality.

Forehead to fist. Then another one. Wait. He stopped, spooked a little — but just a little. Like… why was he doing this? And why the hell did it feel like he just had that thought, maybe even twice?

He thought of circles. He thought of big wheels. So he told himself another time that he really didn’t have to be doing this.

He was sure that it was the first time on earth that any man could conceive of such a notion.

WHY, then? Shit, maybe Morgan was right. He couldn’t admit to being wrong just yet, though, that was the issue.

His new “Re-Teenin’” bride was getting a little dumber herself, and she was still the (admittedly wet and simmering) brains of the marriage by now. Zack didn’t want to own up to the taste of his male tears.

She’d been the smart one even before moving to Fulsem Nobb, but he was growing more and more apelike: forgetting, like, a TON of words.

He suffered through some bizarre cluster headaches, too. They seemed to only show up if he tried to read a dozen sentences within the span of a single hour.

The town’s local porno news, porno sports, and porno weather all but bestowed ASMR type braingasms into the poor boy, on the other hand.

Was he just trying to kill time in the garage? Was that what this was about?

He didn’t have to be doing this. It was a genius level revelation. Why didn’t he think of it before?

Breaking down cans so methodically, almost in macho rhythm. Dumb. Proving his new muscles to… himself, in his man cave of a garage.

Morgan had already chastised him out of sex because of his weird new habit the other night, and now he was in the doghouse again, because, what… because .....

Get fucking real.

Had it really only been three days? Seriously? He was already becoming a Mounten Dude addict.

“Amazing soda, bro!” he’d taken to saying lately, at anyone or anything that would, or could, listen.

Right now, though, it wasn’t even dark yet and he’d already smashed his way to to ten cans of this stuff. Mounten Dude was the shit.

What other soda magically became alcoholic after midnight? Kinda weird and spooky, but come on!

It was a gimmick on par with the cold blue Rockies or whatnot, but it was a gimmick that evidently, really worked.

It was a kind of… convenience, to not have to go back out for a beer. To pound like four or five of ’em, somehow feel like, magically AMPED, you know...

Sort of. A new need, or needs, really, but whatever shut-up who cares...

Tasted like a sour Baja Blast, considering the “Carriage Mash House” double fermentation process…

What was the big deal, about this shit, anyhow? So he smashed another one. They went down like a whole gob of some icy hot dark chocolate chili something, if they were a little old.

“Chase yer cream,” he muttered to himself...

* * *

“Oh my gosh, I LOVE Buffy, Mean Girls, Sabrina the fuckin’, uh, the tee—“

Heather Two brought her hand coquettishly to her own jugs, interrupting Lyn.

The girl had been sent by, who’s-a-whatsa… oh, right. Southern Poverty Law Center.

“Bitch, I gotta inn’upt yo ass fore a minute, bitch. Hahaha — YO! You CRAAAYZY!”

Lyn looked like she was about to cry, as Heather Two sucked at her teeth, kinda bitchy.

Eating slut pellets intended to turn her into a breeding girl-cow-thing: that was what was really demeaning.

It was nice to have American Kelley Greene shorts, they were made of that weird but totally rad, space age fabric…

What was it called, again? Beatitudinal Re-Big-Ass-4U-Bacci Operative Mode Trainers? BRB-Ass4U for short, right?

Times have really changed. We all used to spend lonely nights. Imagine that.

Can you even imagine a time when it wasn’t like this? I can’t.

My brother swears that he can, but then I remind him that I was the third chick to ever suck his cock, but the first on our parents’ block, like, fer SURE.

Neither one of us can remember being really little, like pre high school is all wiped out.

I feel so much DUMBER if I really stop and think about it. So I don’t! It’s like the good book of Saint Brittany say —THINKING IS SINKING. I fuckin believe that shit!

Week 5:

“I’m ain’t like, L.O.L., keepin’ track of nobody,” Morgan purred at the fireplace. Her tits were falling out of her weather beaten, off white — it was a fuck bra, plain and simple.

There was no other way to put it. It was dotted with cherries, and jizz. Definitely a lot of jizz.

And you could reach your tongue right down and lick them, and they’d be lickable, like Wonka! It was nuts, but soooo fun.

The sugar strawberry banana taste of them, which was weird because they were clearly cherries, weird, weird, weird.

Like bubble tea almost... The straps were chewy too...

She had changed so much lately, packed on like 40, 45 pounds of girl meat, and certainly gotten rid of like 20 or 30 IQ points in the process.

Was that much more of a bobble-headed fuck slut. Stacked front to back.

Grabbable, grab-n-go, chunky fuck slut. You know the type. Like 40% of all women lately, which is obviously crazy.

But, yeah. Soft as fuck, young forever, kinda dumb but crazy brilliant just the same. A Brittany bitch…

So much jizz. There was just so much of it! Her LIPS had gotten bigger, fatter. When would this end!

“I know I done told you we could look after Yonda and maybe, uh… Dale-Ann, if they get they act together…” she said to her absent hubby.

* * *

Her man — wait, her MAN? Wait. When did that happen, anyway? Were they dating again?

Had they ever really stopped dating?

It was getting hard to tell.

Just keep fuckin’, growin’, and smizin’, just like the good Lord toldja…