The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

She was a beautiful waitress. Her nipples pressed tents into the scant top she wore, and her miniskirt left little to the imagination. Her pale skin, dolled up face, and hair in a neat ponytail gave the impression of a woman that knew what men liked. Her name tag read “Brittany”.

“Anything else I can get for you? A blowjob? Titfuck?” She cooed as she refilled my coffee cup.

“No thanks,” came my automatic reply. “I’ve gotta save up for later tonight.”

“Lucky girl,” Brittany pouted, her plump lips perfectly glossed. “Just let me know if you need anything,” and she wandered off to serve other customers, an eye-catching sway to her hips.

I was left in relative peace, browsing through my phone and enjoying my waffle breakfast. Around me, eyes kept glancing my way. Girls, all of them similarly beautiful like Brittany, whispered in hushed voices to their friends or coworkers. Even the gorgeous chefs behind the counter would come out to peek at me.

The manager, a prim and dire woman with short hair, made the rounds, silencing her chefs and waitresses with stern looks and verbal warnings. Her name was Amanda. I had a nice conversation with her when I entered the restaurant. She was like me. A Survivor, if you could call us that.

“I just don’t want to be bothered. I eat at home a lot, for obvious reasons. It’d be nice to have a restaurant meal in peace,” I’d told her.

“Yes, of course. If it’s ok, I’ll stick you in a corner booth and let the other guests know,” Amanda’s eyes were kind. Hearing my request was, perhaps, a breath of fresh air to her.

My phone was a holdover. A device for a smarter time, when the Internet was full of content generated by the second. Now, I used it to play games, to distract myself from the world around me. The crazy, insane world. Not at all the one I thought I’d come back to when I walked out onto a long pier in southern California.

The news still wrote stories about the event. It had a hundred different names. Rapture. The Coming. Global Bimbofication. Most people, most girls, just called it Girl Day.

“The Girl Day Event seems to be evolving,” read a news article, “As if transforming most of the world into curvy, horny women weren’t enough, some women are undergoing further transformations in what is being called the ‘Second Wave’.”

I frowned. I didn’t want any more change. It was hard enough to get used to the way things were already.

Back home, I locked my front gate and took stock of my surroundings. My neighborhood was empty. Cars rusted in driveways and grass grew wild in front lawns. A family of deer poked their heads up from another yard to regard me before returning to their lives.

Most women lived in apartments, or hotels converted into apartments. They supported each other, rode public transport, and attended classes so they could keep the civilized world running. In a way, I was glad for the peace and quiet. I didn’t have to worry about my neighbor’s obnoxious rooster, or the screaming kids that ran up and down the street. Now, all I had to worry about were the howls of coyotes and the morning songbirds that had taken up residence in my oak tree out back.

The electricity still worked. Water kept running clean. The Internet was still in service and, despite living outside of the city, I still got mail on a weekly basis. At my front porch was a heavy document envelope. I carried it in and opened it up as I set my keys on my foyer catch-all.

“Adopt a Girl!” The advertisement read. This was new. I sat down on my sofa and regarded the thick pamphlet with equal parts suspicion and curiosity.

Adopt a Girl! This new city program is aimed at giving homes to the estranged women of the world.

Ok, now that we’ve lost the attention span of any bimbo, I’m going to deliver it to you straight. I’m a Survivor. I work organizing one of the many apartment-hotels in the city. This system… it works. It’s amazing that it works. Everyone gets along, things are kept clean and orderly, and these Girls are surprisingly receptive to positive reinforcement training. They can be trained, they can be taught to act almost normal, they can cook and clean.

I had the bright idea to try to get some of these girls off of the government programs and into some homes to help ease the burden. I know you’re out there. Other Survivors. Women, some men. Maybe you already have a couple Girls, maybe you live out in the middle of nowhere and have none? Yeah, right. Anyway, this pamphlet reached you because the government is willing to take a chance to reach out and get some of these Girls out of the system and into some actual homes.

So just consider it, alright? You’ll find tons of girls listed here. Pictures, personalities. Heck, even if you don’t like a certain Girl’s personality, you can probably just tell her to act different and she will, especially if you’re a guy! Or a girl willing to put on a strap-on! It’s incredible what these Girls will do for a bit of play from a Survivor! You’re like a drug to them! I’m like a drug to them and frankly I’m exhausted! I get more than I could ever want, so please, please consider taking a Girl or two or three into your home! Think of your fellow Survivors that have to put up with these randy Girls day in and day out! Help us share the load, you know?

Anyway, below is the contact information. Just call and we’ll set you up. Fees? Pah. Charges? None. Just take these Girls off our hands!

My thoughts went to Amanda. Survivors like us were few and far between these days. The lucky few that had been in boats, planes, and even submarines. Any place that wasn’t in the bounds of the land. The rest? Well, they’d become Girls.

It didn’t matter what you were before. Well, it mattered a little. If you were blonde, you were still blonde. If you were Asian you were still Asian. The event, Girl Day, was a great equalizer across race, age, and sex. Everyone became a Girl. Chest sizes, complexions, hair styles, eye color, those still came in all sorts of variety, but a few things were true of all Girls.

First, their libido was through the roof. They could fuck and suck and ride and grind all day long and it would never be enough. They were always ready, wet, and eager for any kind of sex, with anyone! Relationships, marriage, sexual orientation, those things don’t matter to a Girl.

Second, they were, as far as anyone could tell so far, ageless. Not necessarily immortal, but it was very difficult to tell if a Girl was twenty or seventy. Smooth skin, bright eyes, not a flaw or malady to a single one of them. A few Girls had an inkling of what they’d been before. When they tried really, really hard, in the beginning anyway, they could bring up a memory of having lost a limb, or gone blind with age, or been morbidly obese.

Which brings us to number three. Memories from before Girl Day were scarce. Girls just didn’t care about what they’d been before. There had been a few holdouts for the first couple months. Former men that simply refused to believe what had happened, but when they let their guard down, the Girl inside them wiped the past away. Some Girls forgot their names, their homes, even their families. For the Girls, this wasn’t really an issue. For the Survivors, it was a dark, confusing time.

I ran a hand through my hair and let out a long sigh. I didn’t want a Girl. If I wanted to have sex, I could drive a mile to the nearest gas station and bend over the attendant. She’d be thrilled, and would likely give me a discount on fueling up.

The thought sent my crotch pulsing. Of course, the body wants what it wants, but I’d seen other men and what Girl Day had done to them. For a while they’d become kings, able to have any woman that caught their fancy. They glutted themselves on the things they could get away with. And then… they disappeared. I could only assume that they were locked up in their homes, being waited on hand and foot by the horny Girls they’d made a harem of. Or perhaps they were jealously guarded, milked for sex, bound to beds and unable to see daylight through the mass of juicy butts and jiggling tits. I was terrified of that fate, of succumbing to base instincts and losing what it meant to have a real life.

The women Survivors, in my mind, had it best. They could train the Girls, get them to behave right, and, effectively, ran the world. To be fair, the world had never seen such a peace in all of history. The female Survivors of each country saluted each other and got to work, too focused on keeping their own country running to worry much about anything else. I wondered what a war in these times would even look like.

Girls in fatigues running at the enemy with power dildos, probably. The side that gets the other to cum their brains out first wins.

Amanda probably ran several restaurants. Weary, no doubt, from dealing with the ditzy mindsets and forgetful personalities of the Girls that worked for her. And yet, the Girls she’d hired had made a good waffle, and I hadn’t been touched in an untoward way even once.

I set the pamphlet aside. I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. As I set up a movie to watch, I wondered if the writer of that pamphlet was a man or a woman.

The next morning, I found myself pacing. I cleaned the house, room by room, organizing my things, dusting my bookshelves, folding my laundry. I told myself that I was relishing my independence and enjoying being productive. Truthfully, I was avoiding the thoughts ringing around in my head.

“I could have a Girl do this.” I muttered to myself as I knotted my socks. “I could have her do this while I talk to her about my day.” The image came unbidden into my mind. A housewife. I was sure a Girl would be thrilled to wear a simple sundress, or an apron and put their hair up in a bob like a woman from a 50’s film.

Before I knew it, I was perusing the pamphlet on my couch. I’d avoided becoming a glutton to sex, a slave to this insane world, by holing up in my home and venturing out on quick trips to the grocery store or the gas station. All the while I’d suppressed the trauma of walking back into a vastly different world from that pier.

The magazine was well formatted at the very least. The pictures were professional. Each one featured a Girl sitting politely in a chair, smiling vapidly for the camera. A few had been pacified with lollipops or candy canes, likely so they’d sit still long enough for the photographer to work. Their names were seldom longer than two syllables. Nina, Cindy, Becky, Alice, each with their measurements, cup sizes, and favorite sexual position and dildo type. Just reading the lewd brochure got me hard. Still, the only way I’d remained chaste for so long was by refusing to make any decisions while horny. It had gotten me this far, at least.

My perusal paused on a Girl named Vera. Her features were unique, even among the other Girls I’d seen. Her hair and her eyes were pink, and her skin was surprisingly pale, like a doll’s. She had a kind face and her pouty lips were settled into a content smile. If I didn’t know better, I could have sworn she showed a spark of intelligence in that exotic gaze.

“Vera, huh?” Her outstanding breasts were wrapped in a dress that matched her bright, long hair. It was a high waisted piece that flared dramatically around her hips. Her outfit was completed with a pair of candy red strappy heels and a few golden bracelets on her wrists. She looked classy, though that could have just been the efforts of the person in charge of their wardrobe, if there was such a job.

Her personality was described as, “Incredibly sweet” and her favorite position was “Missionary”. I ran a hand over my face.

“I’m really considering this,” I sighed. My cock wasn’t going to be dissuaded, but I folded the pamphlet up and returned to my chores, determined to save my decision until after my arousal abated.

Trouble is, it didn’t. Even after scrubbing the bathtub and taking the trash out, I was still rock hard. Thoughts of Vera’s sweet face and jutting breasts simply wouldn’t leave my mind. I could imagine her, laying on her back, taking all of the frustration that had pent up over the last few months with glee.

Before I knew it, I was dialing the phone number on the advert.

“Like, hiiii, I’m Liza!” came a cheery voice on the other end. “Oh, uh, I’m supposed to say this…” and that voice became methodical and lacking enthusiasm, “Welcome to the, uh, Adopt a Girl program. We want to help match you up with a good Girl! Ooh, I like that! I like being a good Girl!”

“Right, uh…” I began, but was immediately cut off.

“OH EM GEE!! Are you a MAN?!” the voice squealed. I had to pull the phone away from my ear.

“Er… do you have a manager I could speak to, Liza?”

“Aww, don’t you want to speak to meeeee? I could do soooo many nice things with you. I’ll kiss you and lick you and fu—... huh?” Liza’s voice became distant. “Like, I dunno, I didn’t get his name yet. Does that matter? … Yeah! It’s a man! … Aww, can’t I talk to him, like, a little longer? I’m soooo horny! His voice is super duper sexy! … Fiiiine.”

“Ahem. I’m obligated to tell you that this call may be monitored,” came a much more professional female voice. “My name is Cherise. How can I help you today?”

“Hey Cherise. I was hoping to make an appointment… I got an advertisement about adopting a Girl,” I began.

“Great! Let me get some basic information from you real quick.”

I gave her my name, address, age, income, normal stuff.

“Alright, and how many Girls live with you currently?” Cherise asked next.

“None, I live alone.”

There was a long pause on the line. “None? Really? You are a man, right?”

“Yes, I am. Is that a problem?”

Cherise’s voice grew despondent, “I didn’t realize there were still men that swung that way…”

I quirked a brow and looked at my own phone, “No! You’ve got it all wrong! Look, this world, being a Survivor… I didn’t ask for any of this, I didn’t want it!”

“Right, erm, I’m sorry. I apologize for assuming anything. Anyway, we’d love to help match you up with a Girl, of course! Did you see anyone you liked in our brochure?”

“Yeah, I saw this one… Vera?”

“Vera, ah, with the pink hair?”

“That’s the one. It’s… strange to talk about these Girls like they’re a product.”

“Strange times, strange measures. Please understand, you’re not being judged at all. In fact, by taking Vera, you’re helping us out more than you know. The Girls can be trained very well for all sorts of things. Cleaning, cooking, even plumbing and basic math, but running a company? Keeping a power plant going? Programming? That falls to us Survivors. What I’m trying to say is, there’s only so many maids and chefs and plumbers the world needs.”

I chuckled, “I can imagine. So, what’s the next step?”

“Next is you come on in! We’ll set you up with an interview with Vera! If you like each other, then a little bit of paperwork and you can take her home with you! And really, Vera will be thrilled to meet you.”

“Because I’m a man?” I bit back a sigh.

“Yes, frankly. Still! The enthusiasm will be real and I’m sure you’ll get along great!”

Cherise gave me the address to an office complex and set me up with an appointment for the following day.

I spent the rest of my day pacing.