The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

A long time ago in the kingdom of Dood, King Derwood sat on his throne, frowning a frown, a frown which gave worry to maidens near and far.

The last time the King’s face had frowned such a frown, with the wikes of his mouth pointed down, events had transpired, events which had changed the Kingdom of Dood forever.

The brownstudy King grimaced and growled with his wrined forehead all creased beneath his pointed gold crown. His Queen had absconded; cavoosering with a royal page named Bart.

“Fetch my royal magicians,” the king commanded.

On seeing the thrunched King’s royal glunch, everyone in the palace trembled with trepidation. The Magicians, it was said, mumbled dark words over fetid potions and practiced dark arts while performing dark deeds; dark deeds that cannot be spoken, lest tongues burst aflame and tonsils pop like corn.

The Magicians, having been summoned by the King, arrived that very noon. They shuffled into the great hall with their robes and pointy hats and symbols of the Moon, Sun and Stars. Standing before the King, they inquired of his desires.

“I desire, oh magicians,” the King began, sourly, “I desire that all women, both married and maidens, in the Kingdom of Dood be made loyal, obedient, and true, true to their man in unbreakable bond, pleasant to the eye and attentive to his needs. The women of Dood must learn their place, their place and their role.”

The magicians raised their dwizzen faces and uttered but one word, “Boobleck,” they wheezed as one.

To this day, no one, neither lowly nor learned, knows what that word means or from which lingual palette it pattered. Everyone, however, is well aware of what happened, after the magicians shuffled out and went away, away to their mystic cave, deep within the base of Mount Misticup. It is said that there they performed rites so foul, so dreadful, that no record has been kept. It is said that, on that fateful day, the Magicians potioned and conjured, chanting long into the night, to the tune of a rancid buzznack, summoning forth that which the King had bid them to conjure.

It is rumored that this is the chant they used:

“Rise magic smoke

Spread across the land

Maidens of age rearrange

From plain and proper they be

Make Bimbos blonde and airy.

Slaves to libidinist lewstery

Stiff-quean Objects of desire

With boobs that are busty

And minds full of lusty

Yeepsen butts; firm and round

In perfect hourglass form shall be bound

Eassin slaves to libido shall they be

Obedient and content and oh so bubbly

Oh thwankin smoke, go hither

Go tither

Go whither

And set pussies atwitter all through the land

Make lusty busty bimbos, plentiful as sand”

While no one knows for sure, the potions, agglutinants and ingredients; and no one knows the precise chants, the words of power that they invoked, everyone- and I mean everyone knows what happened as a result.

Changes came about, changes that changed all of Dood forever.

All women aged eighteen and up changed that night, changed profoundly. Prorump breasts became boobs, huge melons, hooters that pushed out their chests in supernatural sororiation. Their hair became blonde, not the light golden hue of straw, not that kind of blonde; but a snowbound, floozy, florescent white not found among the bristles of nature’s paintbrush. Their bottoms became round, with a waist oh so thin, and their minds?

Their minds, you ask? Their minds morphed the most; their thoughts became lusty, as their busts grew quite busty. Their brains filled with sex, beings of pleasure were they, from that day forward, filled with thoughts of Men, of each serving her man, of dressing for him, and cooking for him, and cleaning and pleasuring long into the night; from that moment on they had thoughts of nothing else.

It was on that day, in the Kingdom of Dood, the first Bimbos in the whole known world were made, created from the women of Dood, by feff-laden smoke from a natkin-scented cauldron, in a cave, in the bowels of Mount Misticup.

From that day onward, each maiden, upon her eighteenth birthday would change, blooming into prunk, sexed-up slaves to libido and to their men. Every woman in Dood changed; the henfare Queen returned to her King, a buxom bimbo like the rest, lustfully obedient and completely incapable of any other thought.

And now, two and twenty years later, the King was frowning yet again.

He looked at his Queen, bound to his side by a royal lust; her hair, once red, now was blonde. He looked her up and down, as her eyes stared back, locked on his crotch; and she smiled a wanton smile.

Rosilinde Cornflower, assistant to the King’s royal bibliothecary, saw the frown. She was too young, three months and a day until her eighteenth birthday, too young to have seen, to have seen the frown that the King’s frowning face had frowned on that day, long ago.

She had heard stories, and she knew well her Mother, she whose hair had been the color of golden moonbeams, was now a lusty, busty, meretricious, blonde bimbo to rival all others.

Rosilinde thought of her mother for a moment, and Rosilinde wondered from whence the moment’s musing had sprung. She thought of how truly magnificent her mobbled mother was; the fleshy pillows on her chest, butt so round and waist so thin.

‘No’ Rosilinde thought, ‘no . . . the King doesn’t know it, but before I turn eighteen we, the family and I, shall be across the border into Geisell, the Kingdom of Theodoric the poet.’

It was thought by many that Dood’s Bimbos, once outside that Kingdom, fed clean water and breathing clean air away from Dood and Dood’s magical spell, would return to their natural bellitude, their visage fair and graceful. Rosilinde hoped this was true, that she and her mother would be saved from Dood’s lurid depravity.

True, Rosilinde had felt a strange calenture of late, having extra trouble with long division, and reading statutes, or reading anything that didn’t include pictures for that matter, but she knew that there would be time.

Her family would be away before the changes took force.

Her mind wandered as the King frowned, listening to his royal astrologer, a strange, smallish man who told of a discovery made by someone else.

“Your Majesty, it is true, the calendar of Dood has a flaw. The days, too many are they, too long is the year, and thus the calendar shall have to be changed.”

Truly it was reasoned, that in space as they turned, circling the Earth in their annual travels, the Heavens took less time than was thought, to make their rounds. The error had been discovered by the Royal accounting department as nothing called science had been invented yet.

“Nonsense, whiffingerish weatherspy,” bellowed the King. “Nonsense, we shall never change the calendar! I decree that the year itself must conform to our calendar! We shall attend to this instead. Our calendar has stood as it is now since Dood has been Dood, and will remain unchanged.”

Rosilinde looked at the King, She hadn’t been paying attention.

The King’s sqiny gaze returned to his lustful wife.

“Fetch my royal Magicians!” he said to no one in particular.

“Sire?” an aide maffled. “Is your Majesty sure?”

“Of course I’m sure, fool!” the King roared. “I’m quite certain that I’m sure!”

Noggling, the tongue-whaled aide made haste to be away as the King glowered on. “All around and underfoot are those who try to tell me, the King what I may and may not have! No one tells a King what he may not do!”

His gaze fell on Rosilinde. “Girl!” he boomed, “Speak! What is your purpose here?”

Rosilinde was jolted from her drifting thoughts to the here and now. “Um, sire, I am here to deliver the inventory results from the Royal library.”

The King looked her up and down. She looked older than obviously she was, for her hair was auburn, almost red, done in blue silken snood, and her nizzertit breasts, barely apparent. The glasses she wore, the Kings frown deepened as he took stock of her, the glasses, resting astride her slender nose, would never be worn by the servile bimbos of Dood.

“How old are you?” The King asked.

“I am seventeen and nine months sire,” Rosilinde answered, lowering her eyes in the proper fashion.

“Ah yes, the young bookworm, you’ve got great things ahead for you, girl.” The King leered.

“Yes, your Majesty.” Rosilinde tried to avoid shifting nervously.

The King turned as the huge doors opened wide and his Royal Magicians shuffled in.

“Your Majesty has summoned us, his loyal magicians.” Their leader spoke, his voice snuzzled, as if speaking through a particularly ancient sock. “How may we serve?”

“I want something new!” The King leaned in from his throne. “I desire change.” He looked at Rosilinde and at his oversexed Queen, that latter of which, with hair somewhat aflunters was still staring at his crotch and drooling slightly.

“Pardon the question your Majesty,” The kelk-voiced Magician began, with more than a little evident hesitation. “May we inquire as to what changes you desire . . . oh the better that we may serve you?”

“Change!” the unbeer King roared. “I grow weary of these bimbos and the way they are! I grow weary of astrologers who tell me that the length of our year is wrong, that thus our calendar is incorrect. I desire that you change these things! Get me a new sort of bimbo and get me the means to make nature itself heel to my royal whims!”

“Yes, sire!” the baffounded magicians shuffled in their long robes, verily unsure of what they were being asked to do.

“And do it immediately!” The King bellowed, standing up to punctuate his point. “I desire change this instant!”

The Magicians made their way as quickly as possible, back to their chambers, beneath the palace, downstairs from the guardrooms, under the dungeon.

Still perplexed and vexed, they pondered. Each looked at their own servants, all of them bimbos of Dood, each a farded creature of lust; they wondered how to change the perfection they saw without making it less perfect.

Shuffling around their magic cauldron with its dreadful smelling smoke they uttered this chant:

“Magic smoke

Magic smoke

Rise once more

Once more come forth

Once more to make change

Bimbos everywhere, all is well

But majesty’s order has fell

Something new he desires

Welwilly smoke we implore:

Make something new from your work before

We know not what

For what we have:

Objects of veridate lust

With copious bust

And firmness of butt

Libido unending

Obedience unbending

These things stoke our fires

But something new our king desires

And to knowledge, too, the King aspires

The means and smarts to know things unknown

Create these wonders we beg

Please add to perfection

Great haste shall you make

And a leg shall you shake

Make a new vision

Of laced-mutton lust

Unless out of work shall we be

Delivered, this day, this change we must see.”

Upstairs in the royal hall the ramfeezled King was wrapping up his daily affairs.

“As his Majesty can see,” Rosilinde was saying; “the library has increased its inventory by twenty-seven per cent from last quarter.” Rosilinde was having trouble concentrating as she read the report. Something was wrong, she knew, but what, she could not guess. A wandering notion kissed her mind: ‘a B-12 deficiency perhaps?’ she dismissed it, having no idea what it might mean.

The King sat, thick-eyed, not listening, what did he care about books? As long as the library had the books he wanted, when he wanted them, what did he care? He realized slowly that his eyes were instead, fixed on the young woman’s chest; and that her chest, rather her breasts, were beginning to grow.

The sudden ullage was noted by Rosilinde as well

In a twee, she swooned, swallocky, dropping the papers to the floor as she spun and nearly fell. Her balance shifted, her legs grew longer, her butt rounder. Her breasts-um boobs, her mind corrected itself- were suddenly growing. From her torso now flounced flonkerous fun pillows to rival her mother’s, or, as she looked, the Queen’s.

The thought crossed her mind to run, to get away, leaving footprints in the rearranging muddle of her mind, the footprints of thoughts half remembered, told her how wrong it was, how she wasn’t a bimbo, how she planned to flee to, what was it? Oh yes, Geisell, where King Theodoric ruled with his big cock . . . yes, his cock. Rosilinde’s fuzzled mind shut out all other things for several precious seconds, focusing on big, throbbing virilia. ‘No!’ her thoughts screamed in her head. ‘I’m like, smart ‘n’ stuff.’

The echoes of footprints left by thoughts now forgotten, told her to get away, to run. In response, her hands moved to scruze her smittlish breasts, no, her boobs, big bouncy boobies, to scruze them some more as her mind swirled and twirled.

“MMMM,” she moaned; cupping and squeezing her now jutting chest through her severely stretched blouse. Unknowingly, she let out a giggle, followed by another moan.

“What’s this?” The King spoke at last.

Rosilinde tried as best she could to regain her composure. Her queachy body was afire with lust as her zamzodden nethers slopped her sodden panties. Something was happening to her brain, she could feel, not what she expected to happen, not the shrinking no, not the vanishing of thought’s intellect, no, far from it, thoughts of things unthinkable filled her awestruck mind. On top of this, it was true, she surmised, she felt an overwhelming desire to please her man, any man, the King, oh especially the King, and his royal cock.

‘Oh, his cock, his royal, unky cock,’ she giggled yet again just thinking about it.

In her zwoddered, humid mind there was something more, alien things, she lusted for sex, that is true, but also she felt, as her long division came back, she had a lust for knowledge. ‘Yes!’ her new thoughts panted and screamed, knowledge is so sexy!’

“What is the meaning of this?” The King stared down at her.

‘A question!’ Rosilinde juiced, ‘I can serve the King! I can serve him . . . and maybe his cock!’ her thoughts rolled over in her mind, mixing lust and sex with something new, there was no word for it yet, but one day it would be called science. It was so very sexy. ‘I’m really, like smart and stuff’, her lusty mind observed again.

“The Calendar, your Majesty!” Rosilinde collected as the words and thoughts formed a train in her mind, a big, sexy, hot, sweaty train, chuggawugging and thrusting powerfully through her brain.

Focus, her thoughts told her. Serve the King; answer his question.

“Previous calculations have had the Earth moving too slowly around the Sun, They have also miscalculated the shape of the orbit and thus, the length of the year. As a result I. . .” she paused, letting out a moan and fondling her breasts a bit more. The new knowledge flowing through her and the thoughts of serving her King overwhelmed her with heated lust and it was several seconds before she could continue. “As a result my birthday has been calculated in error; I was in fact, born exactly eighteen years ago, at four in the afternoon.” She nearly fell; the sensations that swarmed over her body were so strong.

“Flathers, what quignog nonsense are you speaking, my teemful, tutting tart?!” The King boomed. He didn’t understand any of what this bimbo was saying, it being beyond the realm of even the royal astrologers. The Earth, as everyone knew, was unmoving, while the Heavens travelled in the spinning primovant around it. He decided to redirect her to more important things, such as the extreme, miraculous makeover she’d just gone through. “Why is your hair not changing color?”

‘Why indeed?’ Rosilinde thought. ‘Why am I not becoming unnaturally blonde? Would he want to have sex, um fuck me silly if I were? A solution of hydrogen peroxide would solve that problem if it is what the King desires.’ Her thoughts wandered as she pondered her tazzled locks, swirling in wanton lust, suddenly aware that she knew about something called hydrogen peroxide; and that it would make her hair a yummy, desirable shade of blonde. As her thoughts cascaded in her now very busy mind, her puffy lips released a giggle.

“I am pleased.” The peccable King proclaimed. “The Magicians have succeeded in their task; the change is here for all to see. This parnel bimbo is now so smart that even she can’t understand herself. . . Erm,” feeling an onset of satyriasis, he reached down to scratch a growing fullness in his royal trousers, “What about sex?” His roozled eyebrows knit suspiciously; if the magicians had loused this up he would have their heads on platters “What think you of stupration, wanton rampaging ragrowtering, of sex hot and steamy; of orgasms screaming and of body parts reaming?”

“Oh yes sire!” the repurpled, rudderish Rosilinde was close to fainting in her needful nympholepsy. “Please sire!” another giggle escaped her lips as she played with her bountiful bosom.

“Excellent!” He looked over at the runcy Queen, who was smiling lewdly at the offmagandy new convert. “Enough faffle for today, my little rigmuttons,” He looked about the bruzzled hall, those in attendance were eyeing each other with lecherous glint, bimbos eyed men and men eyed them back. With the work day concluding, thoughts turned to bimboodling. “We must retire to my royal bedchamber for a, um . . . conference,” he commanded, following his tented pants to his royal chambers and bidding the bimbos to an obedient, eager heel.

The King proclaimed days of rest, days of lust, and days of lustful rest. He ordained that on this very weekend, every year hence no work would be done, excepting in the brothels, toil was forbidden. By royal order all over eighteen would spend two days cavootling, canoodling and snoodling, especially cavootling.

This festival of sex, an orgy of boozle would come to be known as Boobleckalooza, in honor of that day long ago when the King of Dood had frowned.

And from that day forward, King Derwood never frowned such a frown again, and all of the people in the mollynogging Kingdom, the tall and the small, lived lustfully ever after.